Short story
Alina Johns
The year was 1966 when the first bombs were dropped in Spain, the attackers were unknown and Spain was taken by surprise. The country had no defense, the people had nowhere to run and nobody knew how to help. Spain did what they thought was the most reasonable thing to do, they ordered everyone to stay within the country. Nobody was allowed to leave, the government figured that the bombing was an inside job and they weren’t going to let the people free until they caught the culprit. The people were herded into one city in a matter of days, walls went up and guards were ordered to shoot anyone who tried to escape. Days turned into weeks and weeks to months, the food supplies started to diminish and people started to go hungry. Fights broke out among the citizens and soon the people who couldn’t fight for their meals starved. The people of Spain were dying because in their minds there was no way out, they were trapped and they accepted that.
I woke with a start as my face hit the floor, dazed I pulled myself to my feet. This was the third time this week that my night terrors had sent me flailing to the floor, it was always the same heart wrenching dream. In the darkness I could make out the silhouette of the little wooden crib that held my world, her soft breathing echoing around the room.
That’s when it started, it was the beginning of the end of my life. Light erupted from the little window of my brick home, the ground began to shake and a booming noise pierced its way through the still darkness. The bombs were being dropped. I lunged to the cradle that sat in the middle of my room, still sound asleep was my little black haired girl. I lifted her gently into my arms and quickly ran down the steep steps that led to the cellar. That’s where they said we would be safe and that is where I intended to stay.
Seated in the cellar with my arms filled with my baby the darkness seemed to swallow me, leaving me with nothing but my…