It was 11:45 AM, the sun elevated almost at it's zenith. That was when the first bomb went off. The tables shook viciously, glass sliding off the counters and shattering into millions of pieces. Less than 10 yards away, I heard a shriek of peril coming from the help desk. I remember my heart skipping a beat, caught off guard by this sound. I raced to the window and saw a cloud of ash consume the sky. I ran into the streets, screaming at the top of my lungs: Rehan! Rehan! Rehan! The center was nowhere near the school, but what did I care? All I could hear was the screams and cries for help, but none matched my daughter's voice. The blare of sirens ripped through the air, and soon after, another deafening explosion went off from what seemed like a few miles away. A colleague of mine offered to drive me home to escape the madness, but I declined. I had to find my daughter. She was alone in this bitter and cruel world without me. My co-worker changed his mind, and we dashed to his vehicle, pushing away flailing the arms that attempted to stop us. When we got to the scene, all the was left of the complex was a flimsy skeleton. There was an overwhelming number of children covered in debris and smothered in their own blood. I looked up to the hazy sky and saw yet another rocket overhead. "Everyone hide!" We fell to the ground like leaves, hiding behind whatever structures remained. The missile landed a few blocks away, and we continued the search for our children. I rummaged through the books and bags of the students, clawing at the rusted nails and granite, trying to uncover anyone I could. There were body parts everywhere, and every time I spotted a limb, all I could hear was my mind screaming Rehan's name. "Oh God. Rehan, REHAN! Is that you?" Yet, every time, I was gravely disappointed and slightly relieved that it wasn't my daughter. I began to hiccup convulsively, tears streaming down my cheeks uncontrollably. I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and turned.
"Sister," he said slowly, "you're daughter has been delivered to your house." My heart stopped, pain setting in and fearing the next words that rolled off my tongue.
"Is she dead?"
YOU ARE READING
Syria's War
Short StoryThe aftermath of a child's death leaves a mother grieving and distraught. Short story I wrote for a school assignment inspired by the true account of a mother who saw her daughter blown to pieces in a war-torn country.
