I’ve always been a traveller, but not to overpriced, overrated tourist destinations. That’s far too glamourous for the likes of me. See, I’m stuck pushing against the yellowed glass ceiling of that world while trying to forget that I am trapped inside of another. I’m what you people like to call “Humanity,” or “Human Nature,” or whatever version of that you prefer. I’ll tell you right now that my name doesn’t matter, so don’t fret over labels. Just keep one small thing in mind—you’ll really only notice me when the ash from destruction sticks to my form. But please, don’t be afraid. I’m only here to salvage what I can from the remnants of virtue and corruption. Maybe then you’ll finally learn…

Let me give you an example, because I need you to understand.
It’s November. For you superstitious individuals, it’s Friday the thirteenth. I’m sure you can guess where this is headed.
At seven o’clock in the evening, I take an unexpected trip to Paris. On my way, I see dozens of souls already being dragged away from their bodies. I’m not sure where they are being taken (that’s above my pay grade), but I’m sure wherever it is, it’s preferable to the ground they were lifted from.

Walking among them through the outdoor restaurants, I am careful not to step on their bodies, but death’s assaulting cologne and the impending weight of the angry air above me makes it difficult to walk with accuracy. I trip on a woman’s arm and brace myself for the fall. My hands splash down in a pool of red.

It was inevitable, really; the sidewalk was covered in more blood than cement. Despite this, I tried to pretend that it wasn’t the humans who were bleeding.

I have witnessed enough human experiences to make me wilt a little at my shoulder blades. Scenes like the one around me, they have more weight than you’d think. And they pile on faster than I can strengthen enough to carry them. Yet, every disaster never ceases to surprise me, as if I’ve forgotten the reason my back folds inward.

If anything, that only makes it worse.

Stepping out into the middle of the street (if you can still call it that), I close my eyes and feel what is around me. There are the aftershocks of a suicide a few blocks over, rippling through the screaming sky. Those must be the souls. I nod in confirmation as the smell of cologne re-appears. Another bomb blast sounds immediately after.

I know this M.O.; I’ve dealt with this brand of human before. Breathing in exasperation, I open my eyes to face the scene in front of me. Standing on Rue Bichat, Le Petit Cambodge lies in ruins to my left, its pale blue exterior splattered with the by-products of human failure. On my right, Le Carillon is in even worse condition; the long windows are shattered like teeth, bleeding from the gums. The door hangs open, caught in an awkward half-breath. There must be close to twenty bodies on each side of me. I could reach out and touch them. How unfortunate.

The Little Cambodia. The Chime.

Not today my friends…not today.

I gladly turn my head away from the gore to look straight down the street in front of me. I can picture the gunmen speeding away, hearts bursting along with their victims’. Except they absorb that death and feed it to their adrenaline. They are hungry. They are sick.

They have moved on. I spin to my right, towards the familiar sounds of gunshots, explosions, and human fear. I can practically taste it from where I’m standing. Off in the distance, I can feel eighty-nine more bodies hit the ground at varying times and speeds. Some fight it, and others don’t. This is one of those cases where there just wasn’t enough time to live.

Despite my distaste for such events, I feel the need to be at the source of the pain, if only to give those poor souls some warmth before they are carried away. If I were them, I’d be freezing.
Suddenly, I am standing in front of La Bataclan, one of Paris’ most well-known theatres. Moments ago, it was packed tight with people thrashing their heads and arms. There was music. Eagles of Death Metal. Then, there was only dancing; running and falling, and more blood for me to step in.

I never have clean shoes.

I enter the theatre, and feel nothing and everything at once. I should really be used to this scene by now, but it kills me every time. Except I never die.

The four gunmen sprint towards the bathrooms with their hostages, having completed their initial mission. They run over their carnage and right through me. Typical.

Just as a slow sob bubbles its way up from my gut to my chest, my eyes snap awake, and my lungs fill with a gasp. Survivors.
Call it a sense if you must, but I feel full, radiant lives holding hands above me. Imagine the contrast from where I’m standing.
I’m smiling in my feet, and happiness coils up beneath them. When it releases, I am thrust upward into the attic. Initially, darkness gnaws away at my excitement, exposing the ugly skeleton of doubt. Then, I see them. Dozens of them. There are bodies here, and they are shivering. Moving. Alive.

I can’t help but grin. I perch myself up in the corner, happily radiating my warmth on these lucky souls. The great escapists. The actual shooting lasted only fifteen minutes, but resembled more of a two-hour night terror with no chance of awakening. At least here, there would be safety until our rescue at one a.m.

So you see, I am here to experience. To recognize and remember the light, that, despite its hungry glow, somehow gets lost in the malevolent threads of darkness.

Only then can I remind you who you truly are.