It was an apocalyptic time. The city was bleeding beneath relentless bombing. No buildings remained complete in the government military bombardment. Neither did the street that I had never been to nor did the market that I had always gone to. The bitumen road cracked. A few deep gaps emerged as if they were the gates to the hell. The revolutionary army, my ex-colleagues, dominated the hospital and the shelled school where they controlled the main resources of the city. They were to surrender.
  I joined in the rebellion due to my old man's will despite of my strong reluctance. It was impossible to act against his will; he was, after all, the sole relative of mine in the blockade. He sent me to support his confidant who was the old general in the revolutionary army. I was taken to the army base which was said to be the nearest place to the battle field.
  There I hardly breathed under the heavy tension in the air; I felt like crunching under something enormous. Before the government preliminary bombardment, I spent a week planning for my escape. That night of explosion, I absconded with an automatic pistol for security. My colleagues were whether burning or screaming or buzzing around or whatever; as a result, I gained nobody's attention.
  I ran straight to my old man while imagining the look on his face. He might somehow be glad at my return. But the street where my house belonged to was already nothing. Literally, nothing. My old man had gone with the street and his neighbors. Being dazed by the thunderous booms of bomb from other streets, I seemed to be bereft of emotion. I was benumbed. I just stood there and looked in the direction of my old man.
  So I came to this unprotected, derelict warehouse. It appeared to be, though, my eternal home, as the blockade did not seem to end. I was to remain concealed in the day time and scavenge at night due to the snipers out there. In days, they were snakes, lurking in the hotels or the supermarket or somewhere unseen, were in a position to shoot everyone in their sight regardless of gender, identity, or age. Yet I barely found food at nights, and my hunger encroached on my spirit.
  One day, when I sat on a shabby wooden chair, cautiously holding my automatic pistol, I heard footsteps crunching on gravels. On a high alert, I sprung out of the warehouse while remaining my index finger on the trigger.
  I saw two desperate survivors trudging on the road and scavenging for food, water, parts, materials. One of them was an old man. His skin wrinkled like the surface of a century-old tree, and he plodded like a tortoise. Beside him, a middle-aged woman held his shivering arm. He should be her old man. She knocked at each door they passed by, but the sound quickly faded in the dusty air. The man, the powerful and responsible figure of their family, did not show up to scavenge. It was common, especially in the blockade. Men had to protect their family and bore the early attacks; therefore, they were in the lethally wounded and severely sick group. In other words, men died first.
  I could see some other survivors gazing at them as well as I did. Some of the bystanders were so close to them, that if they'd come out they could rescue the two pathetic scavengers who were taking their last few breaths. However, they did not act or intend to act; neither did I. In the blockade, the sympathy was not worth of a meal.
  After the muffled sounds of pins piercing bubbles, they were shot dead. They fell so loosely as if they were doomed to be shot and to fall. A man came out. He took a general look at them while rolling up his sleeves. Strangely, I could see his eyes from this side of the street. He had got a pair of chilling eyes which could not reflect any light; they reminded me of the melancholy ruins in the city center which was now flat. He bent down and started to scrabble with his scarred hands on the bodies for valuables if there was any.
  My eyes prickled, then I drew back to the warehouse. As I sat down on the chair, I scanned the place: a minimalistic workbench, a dusty gray stove, an empty refrigerator. I had a sudden and severe headache. I felt the dismay of a scavenger. " It shall end. " I muttered in a voice that ought to sound hellish but, in fact, emotionless. I stuck the gun into my mouth. The barrel conducted the metallic cold to my nerve terminals.
  Before pulling the trigger, I recalled a sentence by Hemingway.
  " In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason."