The Painter

Chapter 1

When I looked up I saw smoke, and people running along the streets. Young kids crying uncontrollably, their faces were filthy, you could see how tears travelled on their twisted features. The agony. You could sense it from every single corner of the city.

That was a burning summer. But everything was cold. It was so cold that when I put a hand on Father's dead body I felt warmth. The tinge of joy was soon replaced by disappointment. I'm hallucinating. Hunger was like a devil with a pitchfork, poking my stomach relentlessly. But I was surprisingly calm, or I should say, numb. I picked up a book lying on broken pieces of bricks. Or I should say half a book. Because the other half was devoured by the tongues of flames last night. It was Pride And Prejudice by Jane Austen, a book belonged to Eliza. The book was given to her by Aunt Louisa as a Christmas present last year.

Its owner was lying motionlessly on the cold hard ground. The lips that often spoke of my faults and flaws were purple now. The silence was so loud. And I started missing the harsh personal remarks she threw at me. I even missed how she dragged the last syllable of my name.

"Bella, put your dirty little feet down."
"Bella, how many times did I tell you not to wear my dress?"
"Bella, don't touch my books you uncultivated girl!"

I was holding the book so tight that my fingers felt the pain. The 17 year old girl of which the book belonged to would never shout at me ever again with her eyes full of loathe. I curled beside my older sister and cried out loud. I put the book next to my face and smelled fear, poignancy, desperation. And rage.

The room was engulfed by darkness. I heard the increasingly ear-piercing roars of the Germany warplanes. I would rather run than hide. Although it was such an idiotic decision. I grabbed the book and made my way out of the ruins, well, "crawled out" would be much more precise.