A man stands in a small, dank, stone room. His shoulders hunched, demeanor defeated and aching despite the celebratory sounds of fireworks heard through thick layers of earth outside. His fingers rest on a crude button set shallowly into the rock face in front of him. Across the walls are tacked crumpled pieces of paper and signs, poetic words made illegible by frantic, scrambled handwriting. He mutters to himself, conflicted, then screams into the silence.
“What are you doing?” A cool voice sounds from behind him. Warmth bitten with anticipatory restraint. A father, admired and as such distant, is there when the man turns. He stammers, tries to explain his antics but it is plain to see how affected he is. The madness in his eyes.
The father attempts to console him, but it is no use.
“There was a saying, by a traitor… It was never meant to be.” The man’s movements are swift and sure for the first time in years, his hand deftly pressing the button into a depress, then coming to rest in a salute as he turns back to look at his father. The sizzle of a building fuse, followed by scrambling and popping is heard as all at once, dozens of pounds of explosives ignite. The father runs toward his son, but watches as the walls crumble around them, letting cracks of sunlight and sprays of disrupted water fill the air.1
