One
I was born on the minefield. I didn’t know it then; it was just the place where I was born. The mines didn’t start to explode until I learned to walk. I remember the first one I stepped on, the blinding light, the sound that pierced my eardrums and made them bleed, the sensation of my chest being blown away to pieces, and yet, when I looked down my body was still intact. I raised my hand to my ears. The pain was still there, as if something was worming its way into my brain, destroying all the soft flesh on its way. Like a dum-dum bullet. …you stupid piece of shit… This type of the mine, I learned later, was the one that was there most often, hidden in the grass, in the flower beds, behind the tree trunks. I never knew where they were, so I learned not to trust the grass, the flowers, the trees. They could be traps. They culd be there to hurt me. There were other types of mines, more complex, more damaging. You’re ungrateful. There you are, but you know you d