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“What about the wind?”

The question bursts from my half-open lips. The stranger, surprised, stares at me blankly, his dark eyes peering from under his hood. His hands have stopped dead, clasped around the straps of his rucksack. His face’s contours look as if they’ve been cut with a knife, carved out against the blueish grey of the sky. He has no answer for me, but I’m pressed by the urgency of the interrogation. I’ve forgotten why, really. Beneath me, the dampness of thick grass gradually wets my back, icy and gooey; it blankets the hill we’re standing on with its pale, gloomy expanse. I don’t recognise anything, but it’s not the first time I’ve been here, I think. Everything seems so grey and sticky to me; the sun’s rays struggle to pierce the layer of slimy clouds, each one darker than the last. Below us, I can make out buildings in ruins, piled up among the drops of a fine rain; the drops stammer lightly around us, heralding a fearsome downpour and slicing the horizon with its needles of fresh water. Flashes of lightning erupt in the corner of my eye, but I can’t turn my head.

At my side, the stranger no longer holds my gaze. On his dark and grim clothes, I notice an insignia I can’t make out, a complex logo with illegible acronyms; this mark is also inscribed on the top of his bag, covered in mud. Something about him inspires trust, but I couldn’t say what. Maybe it’s his thin lips, his pale complexion, as grey and sad as the sinister cumulus clouds above. I open my mouth, but I don’t know what I wanted to say.

“It’s still blowing.”

The outsider’s voice answers me, deep and raspy, full of distant accents. A nagging nausea prevents me from bombarding him with the questions that are rushing towards my lips. I don’t recognise anything around me. Muffled cannon shots, carried by the wind whistling between the stone carcasses at the bottom of the hill. The silence between these morbid echoes gets heavier and heavier, suffocating me and seeping into every corner of my body. Vague images of explosions, blows and violence make their way to the back of my skull; I don’t know whether I’ve experienced them or imagined them. The stranger has loosened the straps on his bag; his gaze is plunged into its contents, he avoids meeting mine as much as possible. Is it me, in this distant memory, screaming against these gusts of wind? I don’t know any more. My ears are ringing with pain. A distant siren is bellowing against my eardrums, settled under my cranium and incessantly blaring. The man next to me doesn’t seem to care. The waves of thunder over the horizon reach me only bit by bit. I can no longer hear the chirping of birds or the rustling of leaves as they pass; none of that exists any more, apparently, nothing other than these alarms rising up like so many heart-wrenching cries. Only the monotony of my heart beating in my temples pierces the silence, punctuated by the static murmur of the rain.

“Stop fidgeting so much.”

The order takes me by surprise, the stranger’s tone now harsh and urgent. So I’m not invisible. I’m shivering, but I’m hot, an unpleasant, sinuous, insidious heat, until a sudden gust chills my spine. The smell of rust and sulphur it brings burns my nostrils. Long black fumaroles appear on the horizon, towering over the peaks. The wet grass is pressing against my skin; I can’t get it off. I can’t get rid of it. The fiery stench riding the wind is sickening; I rest my head, now too heavy to bear, against the ground. A blinding pain pierces the back of my neck as soon as I try to move too much, a throbbing, stabbing ache. I almost pass out.

A wave of fear is about to drown me, gripping my throat, squeezing with all its might. The idea that I’m not safe here overwhelms me; I have to get out of the wind, the invisible enemy creeping in our meadows. It shattered my life and the lives of so many others, tearing down everything stood on its path. I remember taking up arms to take part in the uprising against this incessant gale; from tornadoes to tsunamis, it ravages everything in its wake. With a frustrated click of my tongue, I freeze; I can’t remember what happened since, why? I swallow back salty tears, to no avail; the sobs trace burning rivers down my icy, muddy cheeks. I can feel the outsider staring at me. He’s less and less of a stranger to me; I don’t know whether I recognise him or whether I’ve tamed his presence. His hands tremble as he rummages through his satchel. There’s a hint of distress in the depths of his eyes. His body trembles, jerky and frantic; he looks away, out of shame or fear of being noticed.

“What’s the matter?”

I don’t recognise my voice when it comes out of my mouth. Too distorted, hoarse, broken. It’s just not me. I want to sit up, but I can’t. The stranger reassures me; he’s just tired. I can’t make out his tone as he turns pale when I mention my lower body. My legs are numb, cold; I can hardly feel them. My fingernails are grimy, covered in dirt and gunpowder. I look up at the darkening sky; I’d give anything for a bit of warmth. I remember the feel of clean linen sheets on my skin, the softness and comfort, the smell of soap mingling with my dreams. I’d like to feel the sun brushing against my eyelids, my cheeks, my toes. Yet everything is numb, cold and damp. My skin has become a faint memory of raw, peeled leather, reddened by the elements. I’d like to smell the ocean, the salt water cleansing my pores, washing away this sludge. Smell the sea air full of algae, plunge into the saline breeze, blink against the watery mirror.

The crackling of the wind in the branches brings me back to reality. There was a time when, instead of tearing us from the ground, it supported our kites. The stranger stirs around my legs. I wonder if he’d like the sea. My fingers are soggy from the downpour and I can’t dry them against my soaked and filthy clothes. The hill and I are one.

“What about the wind?”

I barely got the words out. I have to concentrate, I’m starting to ramble. My lips are sore and chapped, preventing me from closing my mouth properly. A taste of rust settles on my parched tongue. I want to ask for water; a guttural gurgle comes from the depths of my throat. And that oh so familiar stranger over there, staring at me. He slips a few swigs of water in my mouth, but I can’t feel it. There’s just this taste of coal and blood, dry and suffocating. My breathing is getting worse and worse. And this wind in my head that keeps whistling in my ears. It’s sucking the breath out what’s left of my lungs. If only I could get up, I could keep going. But I can’t control the shaking, and my body betrays me. Everything is so rigid now, I can’t move. Night has probably fallen, or the sullen clouds have swallowed up all the daylight. Or maybe my eyes have closed; if only I could just let myself drift off into an infinite sleep, at least until the storm is over. Beads of tears glisten in the darkness, sliding down the stranger’s cheeks. I want to wipe them away, but my hands are too heavy. So I smile at him; everything will be fine, he needn’t worry. Above us, the wind roars one last time. It rumbles and swells, louder and louder, more and more dangerous. I can feel it threatening us, but my eyelids are closing; I can’t stand it any more. Despite the gusts blowing again and again, I slip away, plunging into oblivion.