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 don’t really deserve it. 

You’re fat. 

You’re ugly. 

You’re stupid. 

You’re hysterical. 

You are an emotional terrorist.

Each mine took away a piece of me, until I lost my sight, went mute and deaf, with legs and arms gone. Every time it did, I marvelled: how come it didn’t show? How come after each explosion I still had my arms, my legs and my eyes, although I knew they were gone? I would stand in front of the mirror and see myself just like the others saw me, but when I looked down, I saw exposed muscles and shattered bones that protruded from my right leg where the mine hit me. 

Sometimes I would meet people who somehow could see the wounds. They would look at me with hard, cold eyes. 

- You did it to yourself - they’d say. - You provoked it. It was your fault you stepped on the mine. You are so ugly with your open, seeping wounds. Here, let me hit you some more, because you really deserve it for showing this ugliness to me. Now get the fuck away. 

To ward them off, I started to carry small mines on me. Every time someone got close enough to put their fingers in my wounds, I’d detonate it. Then I made myself a vest out of the explosives I collected from the mines. I wired it so that the button was always right under the tip of my thumb.

Some people see it, too.

- You’re bleeding - they say, surprised. - You’re hurt. Here, let me take this away from you. You don’t need to denotate this. I’ll help you. You’re safe with me. 

And with these words I can feel the springs whizz to life and wheels start to spin. There is an additional detonating mechanism hidden deep beneath the explosives. I can feel it reverberate against my ribs. 

They smile. I look at them and smile back.

The clock is ticking.