A wound. A memento. A taste

I was merely walking down the road, earth pushing into my toes. No sound. No inkling of an idea. I stopped, and the whole world must have stopped too. I don't remember the dust raging around me, or the cries of children. There was absolutely no pain when it plunged deep into my flesh. My desire to continue walking had escaped me...and then, I looked down. If it hadn't been for the warm blood trickling on my skin, I would have never realized.

True enough, I saw a glistening piece of metal peaking through my bloodied wound. Just then, I heard my tears slide off my cheeks, but I did not hear my voice. I didn't cry out for help, but let myself drop to the ground and stare at this strange object inside my body. No pain yet. Just warmth. A lot of warmth...then a sting. Bitter blood poured out. I held it with my hand trying to stop it. I felt like being murdered. Pity for myself made me cry, louder now.

For a moment, I had forgotten how to speak. I gazed at passers by with empty eyes.

Did that really just happen to me?

No. No, it cannot be... NO!

This time I called it out loud. I looked around hoping to spot my sniper. To the left, where a deserted land - home to bin bags and a few weeds - stretching up the mountain, where the low village houses sat. To the right, where a long road led down the valley. Mountains stood and declared: Not guilty. Behind, where an old building site was used as a poll centre. I couldn't see well. It was the first day of the dust storm, that has killed a few people since. My eyes stung harder than my wound.

I started to feel chilly - though I'm sure it was a 38-degree day. My heart didn't pound, it smashed against my ribcage.

No, it wasn't in my chest, stomach or head. No, it wasn't a real bullet. It was a pellet. A tiny sharp metal pellet that dug deep into my right foot.

Imagine. Just imagine.