I am aware that it's a little strangely phrased... ^_^
Be warned, this is very very bleak. It's inspired by the recent events in Gaza.
The world was red. No, it was gone. So was he.
He stumbled over the ruins of his village, walking blindly wherever his feet would take him. He was surprised he could walk at all.
Smoke from nearby fires eddied and swirled around him, he couldn't see, could barely breath for coughing. His throat was raw and scratchy, like a demon of discomfort had crawled within and nestled there, rubbing against him with hide of sandpaper.
He was reddened with dust and blood; his own or his families he could not tell. It mingled on his skin, as if he had been covered in clay that had since dried and cracked in the sun. The sun. He looked up and searched the heavens, but all he could see was dust and smoke. The sun seemed the only thing that had been constant in his life, and now he couldn't see it. It had deserted him: Gone. He felt betrayed.
He walked, he walked, he walked until he fell, and he could not tell whether he lay face up or face down. There seemed a quiet peace, a sensation of floating, that came from not knowing in which direction lay the ground and which the sky. He forgot, for a moment, his pain, and drifted as though a child rocked in his cradle. A child, his child. He remembered the birth of his son, the day he took his first step, his first day of school. He was broken from his memories and snatched back to the present wen he realized that the school would no longer be there. It was gone. So was his son.
His body convulsed, racked with dry, coughing sobs. No tears would come, his chest ached, he felt that he was being crushed by the weight of the dead. His pain seemed to stretch eternally, and he though, "My world is gone." And so was he.
