The Suffocation Series.

117

The fire and the smoke that erupted with all its might,
Suffocating the small fragile girl that crouched in the corner of the room.
A room that consisted of cracked walls, patches of faded cream paint.
The roof trembling and the fan swinging in every direction.
Grumbling noise came from beyond the walls.
The little girl covered her bloody ear with her small hands.
Her bloodshot eyes staring at the window as it trembled.
Anytime now, the roof was about to fall on her body.
The fan was going to detach itself from the ceiling and land on the girl.
The already cracked walls were going to topple and press the little baby.
She kept her ears covered, closed her eyes and moved back and forth,
Blocking out the blood curdling screams and the cries for help.
Every single day, She waited for death to take her away.
To take her to a place where there existed no bloodshed,
No pain.
Only harmony.
Chanting verses that might distract her from her surroundings.
It hadn’t stopped,
She could still feel the ground beneath her shaking.
She could still hear everything despite her effort to block it out.
She didn’t move an inch,
As if her movement would provoke more disaster.
She continued her chants,
And so did the war.

 

His hands shuffled through the numerous bricks,
Scattered across the whole area.
He felt his sweat drip from his forehead,
And his worn out clothes woven into his skin.
His eyes held pain,
Agony,
Despair.
Rugged hands brushed against the pile of rocks and bricks,
The flesh of his hands, red,
Covered in blood and blisters,
With patches of black, here and there.
Pain shot through his fingers, as it came in contact with a glass shard.
He ignored the discomfort,
Sobbing sheepishly.
The shallow screams ringed in his bloody ears.
He stood up on his bare feet and look around.
He shouted with all his might,
In search for someone who would help him,
Who would hear him out.
He pulled on his hair with frustration,
His lower lip quivered.
Once again, his hands landed on the collapsed building.
Somewhere,
Under all these inanimate objects,
Was his family,
His two babies,
His beautiful wife.
You could hear the anguish in his muffled sobs.
He continued his frantic search,
And so did the war.

 

Blistered and small feet padded against the concrete pavement
The feet of an eight year old boy,
Who was looking for his parents.
The scorching sun was blinding the boy
With its intense heat, forming cold beads of sweat on his skin.
A T-shirt with patches,
Engulfing the child in itself, protectively.
Ragged breathing and a bruised forehead,
The impact of the explosion still booming in this ear.
Lifeless bodies laying as far as the eye could see.
Walking over the lifeless pieces of anatomy,
The soul of his feet mauled and sore,
As if someone clawed them with their pointed fingernails.
“Valida!”
“Baba!”
He screamed.
The only response was that of the wind.
And the fainted sounds of more disruption.
He ran over the pools​ of blood over and over again,
Till he felt his delicate legs give up on him.
His two legs trembled,
shook,
begging the child to stop.
The boy ignored the plea of his legs,
That ached and couldn’t seem to carry the malnourished body of the child.
Tears left his innocent eyes.
He wasn’t ready to lose another family.
Another part of his existence.
With the back of his hands, he wiped away the tears,
Inhaled sharply.
He needed to find them,
So he kept on running,
And so did the war.

 

Sitting in a pool of blood of no one else but her own child.
The fresh scar beneath her left eye, burned,
But was nothing compared to the pain and restriction she felt in her heart.
It isn’t easy imagining the heartache a mother goes through
when she watches her child shiver in despair.
She cuddled her baby close to her as she sat in the middle of a road.
People were running away from the chaos that was making its way through the place,
But the woman was not paying attention to her surroundings.
Everyone seemed to be running away from death,
Trying to escape its blood thirsty eyes and mouth.
She sat there,
Holding her child,
Whimpering as she caressed the cheeks of her little boy.
The infant wrapped his small hands around his mother’s finger,
Giving it a little squeeze,
Assuring himself that his mother was here,
With him,
Through all this anarchy.
But,
The grip loosened.
The last breath left the child’s dry lips and didn’t return.
They say a woman should never scream while crying,
Should never make a noise when tears leave her eyes.
What if the cause of those tears was the death of her child, her baby?
A scream filled with so much hurt and pain,
Echoed.
The scream of a mother who just lost her child.
Her body heaved with saddened emotions,
The muffled screams that erupted,
As she buried her face into her child’s chest.
Hoping that those screams would break the walls between them.
Her last hope, her last light had now faded, had disappeared
She didn’t move, she couldn’t.
Death didn’t scare her anymore.
Instead, she kept on weeping.
Her cries continued,
And so did the war.

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