In Famagusta, at the hospital. I live. I breathe. With unbearable pain in my leg, but I breathe. That is what matters. My entire thigh was shattered, the doctors struggled for hours to fix it, and still they were not sure. I had lost a lot of blood, but fortunately the femoral artery was not damaged, so they told me, otherwise I wouldn’t have made it even to the hospital door that terrible night. Yes. I live. I breathe. And that alone matters. For three days and nights I was delirious. For three days and nights I lived the same nightmare again and again. Every time I closed my eyes, maybe even when they were open, I was always there, in the apartment block neighborhood, at the place of tragedy and sorrow. In front of me I saw them. The men with masks and weapons. My father, Konstantis. My brother, Giannis. Standing. And then collapsed. Every time. Even after the surgery. The football players and the people of Prometheus had carried me from the apartment block neighborhood. They had brought a car, laid me down in the back seat, and rushed me to the hospital of Famagusta. I didn’t remember much, I had lost consciousness. I only wanted to ask. Again and again the same thing to ask. If they were alive or lost. No one answered me.
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