When it is Your Turn


“God is the greatest.” “What is this?” “Who is this?”

There were orange flames like the exhaust of a drag racer. Pieces of black paper fell from the ceiling. The smoke was as thick as giant rain clouds. It was difficult to breathe. Their mouths and noses filled with dust. The floor was a junkyard of humanity, a perfume bottle here, pieces of shirt there. Debris covered untouched chicken dishes. The sounds of shoes crunching shattered glass blended with the wails.

They walked through the apocalyptic landscape, silent save for the cries of ghostly, dust-covered figures searching for friends and colleagues. He didn’t know it then, but his left eardrum had been perforated. At the bottom of a staircase, an old man writhed in pain. He had somehow worked his way down the steps. He had two more to go, but he seemed to have given up. We didn’t stop.

After the bombing they were missing arms, legs, their very souls. When it is your turn, it is your turn. They have seen too much here.