It was a tragic day. 15th of April 1965. The terrified screams of men, women and children echoing through the valleys. It was a moment that was soon to be stuck to the history pages...
Three hours later, all you could smell was the scent of burning flesh. The taste of smoke trying to choke you from every direction. The chipped green paint on the oak walls of the giant train; the newly blood-stained shards of glass scattered for miles. The dark withered plants that looked so delicate that you dared to breathe too close to them. The dead trees stretching to the ends of the earth; the wind whispering accusingly all around.
All you could see now was firemen rushing here and there with buckets of water, desperately trying to decrease the flames. Families of the victims snatching at any souvenirs the great carcass gave to the depressed people. A cloud of danger hung over everyone, like an even worse smell than the bodies. A sense of mystery around this crash.
A few hours ago, it had seemed so joyous; all happy laughter and fun. Children tracing over the gold swirls on the walls with their fingers, running up and down the carriages... No one saw it coming. But I did. I thought back to that fatal moment, which was now like a glimpse on the horizon. The train suddenly jolting...coming off the rails...everyone panicking. Then the glass windows smashing as they hit the rocky ground, piercing everyone violently; cutting into the skin and causing deep wounds that created dark pools of blood that stained the bright carpets.
How do I know? Everyone died in that crash... Didn't they?
Well...everyone did.
Everyone except me...
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