Life begins behind his eyelids- a spark, a burst, a flash- a notion that flickers and sets his vision to blur. It's dust in the streets, the sun beating down on his shoulders, a sheen of sweat and his fingers curled up into a tight ball. It's featureless bodies, a fist making its mark on the side of his face and hollow laughter when he keeps his arms at his sides.
The sun is brilliant, stark against the silhouettes surrounding him. Gold glints at the base of his neck and he knows he will not be fighting back. That strength is not to be used for himself, and it's the only thing he knows to be true with the entirety of his soul.
To disobey that knowledge would be to disobey God himself; those words are the true formation of a mountain, of a man. They are enough for him to feel at peace. He won't raise his fists from where they're settled.
He doesn't need to.
The faces are out of focus, the voices hard to hear, but they're still precious to him. As long as no one else is in danger- as long as the people he needs to protect are safe-
-bright orange hair and a confident grin; a name he can't remember-
-he can survive. He can endure.
“Those who are different are persecuted...however, --------...
You must be kind.”