The Wanderer

The man cowered behind the rubble of a building he once knew. The sound of his beating heart drowning out the cries of his brothers and sisters. The rhythmic drum of the soldiers footsteps emerge from the darkness, coming closer and closer to the man’s hiding spot. As they near, he holds his breath, praying to any god that would listen that they would pass. A sound scatters from behind him for a moment before disappearing in the shadows.

“What was that”

His heart stops. Panic building up with every step of the soldier moving towards him. He hears the slow footsteps, the sound of the soldier’s sword unsheathed. The torch in the soldier’s hand illuminating the crumbling stack of bricks, a long shadow covering the man hiding beneath. The man’s heart beating like a race horse, the force nearly breaking his ribs as he watches the light come closer and closer before pausing before the rubble. A moment or a lifetime passes.

“What is it?” one of the other soldiers asks from across the street.

“Probably a rat, let’s move.”

The soldier turns and begins walking back to his group, the light from the torch receding down the alley.

The man can’t breathe, his dance with death too close for comfort. A few moments pass and the soldiers turn down another road, their footsteps fading into the night. The man breathes out in relief, he pokes his head out from under the rubble. The alley is blood-soaked and tormented, damaged by the fighting of the previous day. The French foot soldiers had ran through the streets of Madrid killing any Spaniard they could find. Escape was nearly impossible, the man’s only option was to find a way out of the city. Even this, he knew, would be to no avail. The full force of the French army was cascading over the mountains into the Iberian Peninsula. Spain would soon be lost.

The reality of the situation started to sink in. His friends and family were soon to be dead, if not already. He was living on borrowed time. In a last ditch effort, he decides to make a run for it towards the river. He’d lived here his whole life, he knew these streets. If he could cross the river he could find solace in the hills outside of Madrid. The plan was forming in his head, some hope found its way through the sea of panic. He took a moment to ready himself, checking the alley once more before ducking down. With a deep breath and a stern look on his face, the man began to run.

He ran down the alley and down another, passing bodies and wreckage with every turn. As he ran he thought of his childhood. These same streets where he would play soccer with his school mates, now filled with blood and bodies. Anger boiled his blood, he could barely recognize the city he loved. Another turn and then another. The river is just a few blocks away. The sound of gunshots louder with every step. He runs down another alley and finds himself on a main street, sprinting from one end to the other.

“You there! Stop!”

He disappears down an alley, running faster now. He hears footsteps approaching behind him.

“Stop! I’ll shoot!”

The footsteps multiply but the man keeps running. Left turn, right turn, down an alley, another left. The river is close but the men are closer. The man looks back for just a moment and sees 5 French guards just a few paces behind him. He loses his footing and falls on his hands, his palms bleeding badly. The men grab him, bringing him up on his feet.

“With the others” one says.

They begin to drag him towards the plaza a few blocks from the river. The man drags his feet as the soldiers pull him forward. The soldier to his right punches him in the gut and the man begins walking on his own. The soldiers kick the man forward every few paces as the exhaustion begins to set in.

The man is exhausted, the abuse of the soldiers overpowering as they move into the plaza. The shadow of the night tries to hide the sins but falters. The plaza illuminated only for moments as gunpowder ignites in the barrels of the enemy. Flashes of light show snapshots of brutality, as if sparing the man of the full picture. A sea of brown and red fill the square as hundreds of Spaniards are lined up to be executed. Bodies piled up in droves, men women and even children massacred. The soldiers, metallic with their uniforms and weapons, look alien in the night. The firing squad a wall of insects, their faces hidden under the guise of justice.

The man is thrown into line. Sobs from the men and women beside him drumming with his beating heart. Shots are fired, bodies moved, and the line moves ever forward. Soon it is the man’s turn. He faces the soldiers, their rifles only inches from his face. He falls to his knees and raises his arms, blood running down his wrists. Men cower behind him, bodies lay beside him, the faces of the soldiers still hidden, as if they were never there. He puts on a strong face, but the fear seeps out from under. This was it.

…

The 3rd of May 1808 By Francisco Goya paints a depiction of a real massacre that happened in Madrid on May 3rd, 1808. The painting is considered one of the greatest works in the modern age, and the first modern painting. What you just read is a fictional rendition of how I think the man in the painting got to this position. A picture is worth a thousand words.