Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 175

Almost
Island School, Malik, Alizah - 13
I
t began some time ago. They had moved to a neighbourhood presumed to be safer. Calmness
surrounding their home, an ever-present atmosphere. In the streets, he’d spend his time playing games
with his brothers, kicking up sand as they gleefully ran through the neighbourhood.
No one expected the boy’s Baba to be taken by a landmine. No one expected an ambush on their family
store. No one expected it would be just him and his Mama left.
He held fond memories of his family close. Burned fragments he was frightened to let go of. What would
become of them he did not know, of him he did not know, of his dear Mama he did not know.
That he would leave in God’s hands.
After all, you can’t stop what was to come.
What came was smoke. Thick in the air, invading the boy’s mouth, nose and eyes. Leaving him squinting,
coughing, desperate for relief. Furiously he’d wipe at his eyes to abide by his Mama’s warnings. He still felt
the touch of her hand on his wrist. The woman's soft yet trembling voice delivering quick commands and
reassurances.
Now he crouched, shaking all over in the cold of the night. There were voices all around, some distant and
some so very close. Explosions would sound off from afar, the sound deafening, polluting the air more. The
screams roaring then fading into the next bomb miles away.
It was too much. Far too much.
Swallowing deeply, the boy crawled to a thicker hedge, one much closer to the looming, barbed fence what
stood between him and freedom. He heard the masked men shout orders in the language he used to tell
jokes, to greet his family. It had been contorted into its own weapon.
The words God is great, going in on ear and out the other.
That’s when it happened. A high-pitched scream sounded off not too far from the boy. But the sound was
familiar. One he’d bore the brunt of hearing before.
His Mama.
She’d been captured, there was no doubt in his young mind. Awful barks of harsh laughter from the soldiers
only confirmed the thought. Despite his efforts, he felt wetness running down his cheeks. His lungs
constricting, sobs muffled, inhaling ragged, desperate to not receive the same fate.
You’d think if God was so great, he wouldn't be here. He’d be home, in his Mama’s arms, listening to his
Baba's stories, running amuck with his siblings.
What a fate.
Shaken from his thoughts by a forceful hand on his arm, he thrashed. Kicking and screaming to no avail, he
was dragged from his hiding place and mercilessly thrown to the gravel.
All that happened before him, to him, was unclear. Glassy eyes unfocused on several moving shapes. Blurs,
barks, screams, shouts. His eyes did draw to splotches on the ground. Blood.
Oh, so much blood.