Forged in the Shadows

16th April 5:30 p.m.

I found the path. It took some time, but eventually, I found it. I can't say if it was fate or luck. Anyway, I followed it.

Many parts of it were gone. Blasted off, I suppose. The air is full of smoke which hasn't cleared since yesterday's bombing. There's a lot of rubble along the path. The sky is cloudy too. It makes me sad.

I got to Iver Avenue. It was utterly horrible. I saw no houses. Just rubble. I tried to find which one was my house but it was hard to identify with all of them looking the same.

I found a bed. It was from my house. Since it had the Lighting McQueen pictures on its sheets. It was ripped of course. But you could figure out it was the logo. My brother slept on it.

I saw many body parts on the way as well. I couldn't figure out whose it was. But they weren't in my house. So I kept my hopes high.

You see, people believe what they wish to believe. No matter what. If they see body parts in their home, they'll say it was blown from other houses. If they see the body parts not in their homes, they'll say no one from their family died. That's what I'm doing. I try my hardest to believe they are not dead.

I don't cry. I won't. It won't help anyway. Even if I cry, I'll stop immediately. I tell myself I'm a baby for doing that. A twelve-year-old is not a baby.

I kick the rocks. And they hurt my feet. I try to throw a tantrum. But the ground doesn't care. So I stopped. There is only silence. It angers me. So I kicked more rocks.

I found a broken fridge. Next to it was a kitchen. There were loaves of bread. I ate them all. In the fridge were some cheese and beef. I took the cheese. I couldn't cook, so it was useless anyway. I wished I knew how to cook. I could barely turn on the stove.

Then, I heard a voice. It shouted, "Anyone? Anyone?" I didn't reply. I just ran towards the voice. It was a boy. Just a boy. A boy around the same age as me. A boy like me.

He looked at me and said, "My parents are Mr and Mrs.Winslow. Have you seen them? They're around...this tall. My father has a long beard–"

"No, sorry. I haven't seen anyone after the bombing except for you," I replied. I didn't say I was sorry for him, even when I was. It doesn't help in any way.

"Oh." He said, a sense of disappointment surging out from him. He slumped his shoulders and said, "Sorry to bother you."

"Have you seen my family then? My father doesn't have a beard but he has brown eyes. My mother should have worn a yellow dress. And my twin siblings. Younger than me–"

"No. I met two older children. But I suppose they aren't your siblings. I haven't met any grown-ups either." He cut me off.

"Nevermind..." I sighed.

Then he saw the cheese in my hand. "Can I have some? I haven't eaten anything since yesterday's breakfast. Where did you find them?"

I handed him some of the cheese. There was still plenty left. "Found them in a fridge," I told him.

"I' there any'ing le't?" he asked, his voice barely understandable with him munching all the cheese.

"There's some beef–" I couldn't finish my sentence before he said, "Could you bring me there? I know how to cook. I'll give you some too." I didn't wait for him to finish his sentence when I heard he knew how to cook. I led him to the kitchen I found.

"There's so much beef!" he exclaimed, "This doesn't even look like a fridge, how did you find it?"

"The label," I replied.

"Woah! You've got quite a sharp eye."

And he kept to his promise. "Get me some wood. Any. Just need wood." I came back with twigs and everything. It was easy. The bombs blew off so many you couldn't even walk without stepping on two.

He took out a lighter and smiled at me, "My most prized possession!" I smiled back. He was a lot more positive than I was.

He lit up all the twigs. He took some rubble and stood two up then put a long one across them. It wasn't really tall from the fire, about one inch and maybe a little more. He brushed the rubble on the top slightly and blew the dust off.

We found some aluminium foil and he wrapped the beef with it. Then, he laid the beef on the rubble. "Perfect," he said. "Although there's no water to unfreeze it, it's already unfrozen from being out of the freezer."

The mention of water made us both thirsty. It occurred to me that I hadn't drunk anything for a day. I was so caught up in everything that happened.

We went on a search for thirst-quenchers while the beef was cooked. I searched for another fridge. It didn't look like one though. It was completely destroyed. But I saw a socket behind it and deduced it could be a fridge.

There was a huge stone on it, so I couldn't see what I could get from the fridge. I wanted to call him over, but then I realised I didn't know his name.

"Hello? Where are you?" I yelled. "Here!" he yelled back. I heard running and then he was right in front of me.

"Hey, I don't want to just call you: hey, you," I said, smiling, "What's your name?"

"Floyde. Dylan Floyde," he answered.

"Xavier Sanchez," I said, "Pleased to meet you." We smiled at the formal atmosphere.

"Help me move this stone, Dylan," I said to him.

"On it, mate," he said with an extra-strong British accent.

We heaved and pulled. But it didn't budge. "Well, I'm gobsmacked, how heavy is this?" he exclaimed. "You're British?" I guessed. He nodded.

"Father is, at least. My mother's Italian. But she died when I was young. Then my father got some rare disease we don't even have a name for. He can't move his legs. So he goes in a wheelchair. I don't know if he survived the bombing."

I didn't say anything. "3, 2, 1! Pull!" I said to get his sad thoughts out of his mind. We pulled. I got angry. He got tired. I kicked the stone. It didn't budge but my feet hurt.

"Final try and I quit," he finally said. He pulled and heaved. And it did budge. 2 cm. I kicked at the stone and it slid off the fridge.

"Let's go!" we whooped in delight. And what was inside of the fridge excited us. Beef, vegetables, even fruits, eggs though many were broken already and guess what, milk! And water!

"Nothing happens by accident. The good Lord wants us to live," Dylan said. We took everything there was and went back to our "stove" and the beef was cooked already.

I put the fire out by laying a piece of large rubble on it and poof, it was gone. Dylan wiped his hands on his shirt and took the steamy, hot beef. He ripped it in two and gave me half.

It was delicious. Better than anything in the world. It was better than any 5-star restaurant's food. It wasn't well done. Rare, at most. There was uncooked blood but we didn't care. It was good. And nothing was as good as it.

I took some leaves and blew off the dust. We put them into our oval-cupped hands and took turns pouring milk into them. We drank all the milk and lay there, filled with food. The sky had cleared by then and the sun came out.

I forgot everything at that moment and just enjoyed it.

Dylan and I decided to stick together until the war ended. We decided that we would camp in the woods at night and search for materials in the morning.

Just as we were about to head into the woods, we heard bombing again, not near us. But we ran anyway.

"They're bombing the east side," I said.

"No," he replied, "They're bombing everywhere." He was right.

We took some rubble and tried to build somewhat of a house from nearby trees and rubble. It didn't work very well but at least we had a circle of stone around us when we slept.

Good night.