I used to believe that I could handle violence. I used to believe that I was in control of my life. I was wrong on both counts. I feel helpless as I sit here now, watching the crimson life seep out of him. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t handle this. I can’t handle death. I turn my head as bile rises to my throat and I retch, loosing the little food that I consumed this morning.

“Dana,” he gasps, “what… are you ok?” He coughs violently, his damp locks lying limply over his face, slick with sweat. The wound is serious. I don’t know what to do.

I can’t look at him as I choke down my sobs. Am I ok, he asks?! What about him? I press my shaking hand against his wound, trying to keep the blood in, thinking that if I push hard enough maybe it will stop its deadly flow. It’s slick and dark and looking at it, even feeling it, makes me want to cry. Why isn’t anyone helping us?

Screams fill the air and I huddle in fear over his limp form, hoping it will all go away. Shots whistle by overhead as people duck and run, trying desperately to escape. War and violence; hatred and death. It’s becoming all of our fates. He promised we would escape, that we would survive together. In my innocence, I believed him.

Why is nobody helping us? Why do people think that violence is something that can be ignored, something that someone else will deal with? We never think it’s going to happen to us or our loved ones. I feel so helpless, watching him die. Two years ago the war was so blissfully far away. Like an ominous storm it drew closer, as each moment the sky grew darker and more charged with energy. Lightning was about to strike, but we didn’t see it. I couldn’t fathom the slaughter that we now faced.

It’s almost over now. Blood steadily leaks through the formerly sterile first-aid bandages. If this was a movie he’d be laughing at me right now. “What a wimp!” he’d say. “Can’t you deal with a little blood?”

I’m sorry, my love.

We’re used to fear, used to death. Famine, disease, and despair are common ailments in our suffering world. It doesn’t even faze us anymore. Violence has become a norm. People die all around me—children, families, lovers—and yet I don’t feel a thing. How did I become so detached from reality? What have I become? How will I survive without him?