Vignette:Going Away

t’s hot. It’s quiet. It’s blurry. It hurts.

The last thing she remembers is the sound of sirens and the sight of jets passing above. Her ears ring like church bells on a Sunday morning, and she feels numb all over.

She doesn’t want to get up. She’s so tired. She’s hurt everywhere.

The sirens won’t stop. Something keeps on whizzing past her. It’s annoying. The crack of gunfire is all around her. It’s like she’s in the middle of the world’s largest fireworks festival.

It’s hard to move. Her legs won’t budge, and neither do her arms.

She can’t understand the shouting. It’s too quiet. She doesn’t recognize whatever she manages to hear. They’re wearing uniforms; that’s not good.

Her eyes strain as they try to readjust themselves. Where’s her holster?

Jeeps and trucks roll in, depositing more soldiers. They have jeeps; that’s not good. The only comrades she can see are on the dirt with her. She can see the whites of their eyes. They don’t blink.

She can start to feel the blood pooling on her abdomen. Where’s her gun?

Her arms hang limply from the stretcher, like loose vines in the wind. The face in front of her is unfamiliar. Too pale. The arm she manages to raise hurts so much. It only takes a gentle grab from a hand to push it back down.

There’s gentle pressure on her stomach. Where is everyone?

The corners of her vision begin to fade away. The muffled voices grow more incoherent. The last face she can see is one of coldness. Their golden-brown eyes do not shine brightly like Alicia's; they are empty. Their low bassy voice does not remind her of her brother and his stoic attitude; it is full of antipathy. Their muffled words do not remind her of her grandfather and his calming reassurances; they are hollow.

For the first time in a long while, it’s getting cold.

Where’s mom?