Description: It's complex, not complicated
Being drunk, he was sleeping on a table, with a gun in his hand, in an improvised bar that had no power: only candle light and a boom box on batteries. My newly adopted father owned the bar and was doing his best to make the business float. His luck was that the Moroccan soldiers would often visit the place.
Back to the drunk boy. He was 15 and he always held a gun in his hand. It was loaded but, strangely, no one was afraid of him. In fact no one seemed to notice he was there. I could not bare the image so I wanted to know the story.
A few years before, when he was 10, the early days of the war took his father away, for good. His mother was all he had to protect him as they were living - well, surviving - alone in a house at the edge of the village. An uncle, their only human connection to the world, would sometimes visit. Just as the boy's father, he had to volunteer as a soldier to the most unwanted war.