The Eruption

The Eruption:

The sky is dark behind the window of our small house, consuming the sight of the monstrous Nevado Del Ruiz volcano. Tall and vast, it has been a significant part of my childhood, of my parents, grandparents and great grandparent’s lives.

Its connection with my Colombian ancestry stretches even further back, I’m sure. As far as I know, this volcano has been around forever or at least for as long as human existence. Before I know it, it will be early morning, and the scorching sun will begin to send its burning rays down on our immense rainforest. I will not have gotten any sleep. My sister and I will get ready for school. We will read, we will write, we will wile away the time so tediously, so methodically.

I will forget about the volcano, forget about my daydreams. Every day is exactly the same. I wish so strongly for something to happen. Something other than passing a maths test.

Beads of sweat drip down my back, my arms, my neck. I lie with just a sheet over my sweltering body, listening to my parents chatter quietly in the living room. I roll onto my side, and glance at the clock. 8:48 PM. I have only been in bed for eight minutes. It feels as though the air is getting more oppressive as the day wears on.

 I close my eyes, try to block the heat out of my thoughts. My mind begins to drift into a careless dream, when I am tugged away from it. I am forced to bolt upright. My body is shaking. The roar I heard in my ears has nothing to do with my sleep. The tremor I felt beneath my feet slowly dies down. The clock says 8:54 PM.

The footsteps of my family stampede down the hall, and they burst through my bedroom door as one. Mum and dad, clutching little Luisa’s hand. “Mama, what was that?” I ask, my voice trembling with unknowing fear. “I don’t know, querido,” she says. “I’m sure it was nothing.” Papa tucks me back into bed and smooths my sheets, while Mama carries my terrified little sister back to her bedroom. “Papa-“ I begin to speak, but he cuts me off. “Catalina, it’s alright! The volcano is just feeling restless today. Don’t worry about it,” he says, and I close my eyes as he quietly leaves my room, hoping desperately that when I open them next it will be morning. When I peek cautiously, the red numbers emitting from my clock are 9:01 PM. There is no way I will be able to fall asleep now. My throat is parched, my head is throbbing. I need a drink, so I swing my legs out of bed and pad across the dark hallway to the bathroom. The water slides down my throat, easing my burning oesophagus.

 I hear the front door creak open, and Mama and Papa step outside. I hurry after them, wishing urgently for some fresh air. I slip in-between my silent parents. They are staring, awestruck, at Mount Nevado Del Ruiz. I take a deep breath of what I had anticipated to be fresh air, and am taken aback, spluttering. The air is ridden with ash, and it is only when Mama puts her shaking arm around my shoulder that I follow her gaze. Thick clouds of grey smoke are billowing out of the volcano, engulfing our little town of Armero, Colombia. Clouds similar to these have been spewing on and off out of the volcano for almost a year to today, November 19th, 1985. But nothing like this. We always knew this would happen. Everyone knew it was practically a death sentence living so close to an active volcano. ‘The Sleeping Lion’, that’s what we all referred to it as. How stupid we were. How naive. Sleeping? The volcano wasn’t sleeping. It was just pretending, closing its eyes, ready to wake up with a start when none of us were prepared.

“Mama, Papa-“ I manage to choke out, before the ash in the air becomes too much, and my parents have to drag me into the house. I cough, gasping for fresh air. There is little in the house, but more than outside. Then, an unmistakeable rumble sends ripples of tremor through the ground. The forceful, thunderous roar of the volcano burns my ears, sends me ducking to the floor. Luisa is screaming, running to my parents.

The four of us huddle together, curled up in balls. We hear the lava flowing down the volcano in the distance, destroying everything in its path. Car engine’s come to life as people desperately try to escape. But worst of all is the sound of our neighbours screaming. Innocent civilians shrieking, screeching, crying for help.

 I close my eyes, and concentrate on my mother’s voice telling us it will all be O.K. That we shouldn’t worry, God will save us. She always relies on God in times of crisis, but never thinks of anything practical to help us. Papa is gripping our hands, so hard I let out a yelp. When will this stop, I think to myself. When will this go away? And then I am shouting it, getting louder and louder. No one stops me. Everyone is too afraid, too frightened to speak.

 I want to get up, to do something, but my legs are too weak, too shaky. I manage to stand up, and wobble over to the window. The volcano is quite a distance from our house, but even I can tell we are about 5 minutes away from the devastation it will bring upon us.

 No longer can I see the lava. I can see many things. Citizens, some of whom I know, scream, running as fast as their traumatized bodies will take them. Animals, monkeys roaming the streets, chattering frantically. Birds flying in flocks out of the rainforest, yet dropping dead from the ash-ridden sky. Trees are burning to the ground. Our entire surroundings are ruined, completely and absolutely unfamiliar to me. But the worst, most terrifying things I can see out my window are the huge mudslides speeding towards our village. They pick up everything in their paths, people, plants, animals, even houses. I know that this is what will kill us eventually.

 I rush back to my family, who are still huddled in the middle of the floor. I’m crying, we all are. Vigorous, powerful tears that overwhelm us with sorrow. But no matter what I do, I can’t warn them about those mudslides. I want them to die unknowing, not shaking with fear about drowning or burning in a mudslide.

 This death will be quick, and that’s the way I want it to remain. If I confirm their fear that we have no hope left, then our death will be a long painful one. We will start dying as soon as the dread really hits us. I know the mudslides are coming when the door handle begins to melt from the heat.

I try to close my eyes, but they immediately open again. I can’t hear anything but the ear-piercing sound of lava and mudslides gushing ever closer, so without my eyes I am left with a horrible feeling of being senseless, trapped in my own body. The mudslide forces our walls down, bringing a sea of swollen, lifeless bodies with it. It’s boiling, so hot that I know I have no hope.

I look down upon motionless bodies, floating in a sea of blistering mud. Surrounded by ruins from nearby houses. From our house. I see my mother, curled up beside my father, baked in a cloud of ash and mud. And it is only when I see myself sprawled out beside them, that I know I am dead too.

This is a story I wrote for English class. We had to write about Natural Disasters, so I  chose to write about an eruption that happened in Nevado Del Ruiz, in Colombia. Anyway, it’s just a short story. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!