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Love in times of anarchy
The figure sprinted away from the angry crowd and headed towards a gap between the buildings. He had ran for hours, though he cared not. He ran until his legs pumped acid, until his forehead sweat blood, until his cheekbones turned a dark purple, and then he ran some more.
At last, he reached her house, and knocked, like a madman, desperately on her door. He looked on both ends of the street to check for any hint that they were approaching; the coasts, for now, were clear. Finally, she opened the door.
‘Why do you knock like that?’ she asked incredulously, ‘And what has happened to you!? You look horrible!’
Little did he care that he was covered in both sweat and blood; he was hugging her as though she was the last hope left on the face of the Earth.
‘They have taken the main streets’, he whispered to her ear, ‘and they are likely to be here in a couple of minutes. We do not have much time.’
The expression on her face changed almost immediately. It was as if though she had been looking at a garden in plain spring, and suddenly a dead body had appeared in the midst of all beauty.
‘W-what are we gonna do, John?’ she asked, her mouth shaking while she uttered the words.
At this point, the man named John ceased to hold her tight, and put his face so close to hers that she could nearly feel his recently shaved mustache on her skin.
‘I love you Susan,’ he said, his blue eyes fixed on the green of hers, ‘and I would not bare live without you.’
She was going to kiss him, but then she suddenly realized what he meant. After a few seconds, though for the woman named Susan it seemed to be a lifetime, she nodded with her head and accepted John’s proposal.
They entered the house, hand by hand, and this time he did not bother to check if they were already on the street. This time, he thought, it did not matter if they came.
By the time one of the revolutionists had reached the house, darkness had already covered the sky. He had been sent there to see if there were any survivors; most people living a high class neighborhood as such had already been sent to death- or trial, as they called it, but this was merely a formality.
He soon realized that this residence had gone unchecked; there was a high probability that there was still somebody inside.
With steps as noisy as the heartbeat of a mice, he approached the window and slipped himself inside, into the kitchen. The television was on, and many lights remained untouched. It was clear that there was somebody inside.
‘In the name of the Revolution, I request you give me your name!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs, drawing the Colt .45 from his left pocket.
‘If you do not give me your name,’ he continued, ‘you will suffer a much worse-’
‘I love you, in this world or the other’ two voices from the hall said, as though they were a chorus, almost perfectly unison.
The man was going to dash into the hall, weapon in hand, before his body stood froze at the sound of a shot. He thought he had misfired his own pistol, but he realized the blast had not come from his trigger. As soon as he entered the hall, he could see the blood splattered on the walls and the carpets.
And the two lovers lay there, on the ground were they professed their love. Hand in hand. Perfectly still.