Since we have decided to explore everything about my past, it doesn't make any sense to just stand here. We need to climb. Climb these stairs. Yes, they are about to fall apart, but they won't. Come, let's climb these steps one by one.
The room on the top is well lit. I mean, it used to be so. That was mine. Mine alone. I was the emperor, and my twin soldiers were at times arranged on the floor in such way that they stood guard on me. They were cold, and useless. Just pieces of metal. But they meant much more to me those days. They were special, and strong, and loyal, and alive, in my imagination.
I used to sit in that corner many times. That was when I felt alone. All by myself, all alone, in this small room. And no one knew that. They thought I was playing, or reading all the time. But can one do that all the time? There are long breaks from the play, from the reading. And it was the toughest to deal with those breaks.
I had my books. And my toys. Not just the tin soldiers. All kinds of toys. My Dad was keen on that, though he had a bad life for himself. He needed me to grow a healthy boy. Despite the backgrounds.
He had many enemies. He did bad jobs. The kind people do with guns and all. And they came for him one day. I heard gun shots while I was negotiating a break from the play and the reading.
There were so many of them. And there was blood all over the floor and on the walls when they left. There were screams too, which died fast. My mother ran through those steps. Yes, the very steps that we climbed now. Was she coming to me? But she was shot on her way, and lay dead on one of those steps. Perhaps that stopped them from climbing up. Or they just god tired of killing.
There were so many dead bodies on the floor. My Dad, my sister, two brothers, two aunts. They spared me. And my books. And my tin soldiers. And my little corner and bits of silent despair.
Well that's me. That's what made me. That explains my silences. I was too weak to retaliate. I just got on with life... with what was left to me, though that was not much. I survived. And I don't own a gun. But I am troubled. See if you can stand me, with those troubles. Or just leave. Climb down those steps. One by one.
Image courtesy: http://creativewriting.ie/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/stairwell_by_schnotte-d57z04l.jpg