Revenue Martyrs

You cough as you try to remember what exactly happened. It was dark, there was but one sound drowning out your screams. You couldn't see. You couldn't hear. All you could feel was coldness, and the smell of sewage. Where are you now?

Your clothes are starting to dry, and the smell is starting to make you sick as the sweat pours off your bruised and broken body. You fight to keep the tears down; your breaths are shallow, as you engage the pain of your fractured ribs. You struggle with every ounce of strength you have to roll yourself over onto your back, shielding your eyes from the sun that seems to be focused on you alone. You look around with a sore neck, a heavy body, and what you see makes you wish you were back in your house.

Few shingles remain on the roof around you, and scattered with holes leading back down into the abyss. You hear the familiar sound of a crying boy. You see him next to you scared, shaking, and hurt.

You crawl your way to the edge of the roof, the tears of pain streaming down your face. You reach the edge and look into the sludge all around you, and stare into a reflection that looks absolutely nothing like you remembered. You’re thirsty, you’re hungry, and you can feel the sunburn already.

How many days have you been here? Your man is dying in your arms. You’ve become accustomed to the bodies that float by, peeking at each one to see if it’s a friend, a neighbor; a relative. Your skin is blistered from the sun, you can no longer cry, you’re body is so dehydrated nothing comes from your eyes. And ever part of you is on fire with pain, the smell around you would make you throw up if you weren’t already too week. A raspy curse pushes itself out of your dry throat, to that asshole that refused to make room to take you and your man somewhere safe. Your car was in the shop, there was nothing you could do.

Suddenly you hear a familiar sound, you begin to feel a breeze falling on your face. You look up at the helicopter hovering above you. Salvation, you weep in happiness, you’d been found, you’re alive, rescue, release, safety.

You squint your eyes and barely make out “MBC" scrawled along the side of it. Smile, you’re on world-wide television. Rest assured that millions are reclining in their comfortable chairs, sipping a beer in their air-conditioned homes, and thinking “wow, sucks to be them”. You are a proud ratings-booster, a revenue generating martyr. You begin to see the helicopter turning around, moving to the next town, leaving you, and all that’s left of your family, to die on that roof, joining the corpses that will be counted whenever anyone gets around to it.