He is unaware of the sacrifice that has been made, the huge price that has been paid, the long road of rags and sorrows which have led to this place.
He can not hear the sound of gunfire, the bullets cutting through skin, the moans and cries from the dying for their mothers. He can not hear the steel doors slamming, the women weeping for their sons and daughters, the pangs of hunger in the night.
He can not hear the thud of the distant explosion, the ticking time bomb, the front door being kicked in, the screech of a Saracen armoured car. He can not hear the dying gasps of men on hunger strike, he can not see their glazed eyes.
Instead, all he hears is the birds singing, the music on a gentle breeze. He hears the sound of an ice cream van, or a bee humming, or catches a glimpse of a sparrow hawk in flight.
His dreams are now filled with sugar plum fairies, not with smoke and horror, as only mine were. His laughter has become my revenge and the revenge of my lost brothers, my brothers in arms.
⏩ James Kearney is a former Blanketman.