His ripped shirt is barely visible in the dust and smoke. He kneels in the rubble, bloody faded jeans loose on his hips, tan skin lined with ragged cuts and bruises underneath. Long dark hair, now dusty white and matted with blood, ripples in the wind like a tattered flag of surrender.
He can't feel the pain.
Broken jaws whisper of sadness.
Broken voices scream of loss.
And his broken eyes turn toward the ground, shadowed with fear and weakness. He clutches his head in scarring hands, ignoring the sharp debris biting his legs. He stares vacantly at the cracked concrete lying in the dust.
He can't see it at all.
Young eyes glisten with tears.
Young lips move with a prayer.
He knows they're gone, and he can't feel his heart. It was crushed in the disaster, destroyed in the riots and their screams of desperation.
He's holding a piece of jagged metal in his hand, and he turns it to look at his reflection: tortured eyes and cheekbones lined with tear tracks. He closes eyes that have lost their tears, and puts it against his forearm, biting his lip in fear. And he drags it across his aching skin, where three lines of blood appear, one for each love he'll never get back.
He holds his stinging arm against his chest, letting the blood stain his heart.
The tears fall to the dust.
And he stands up, with the strength of a child.