Word Count: 318
There has been an explosion. I am afraid my children are dead. I’ve cried out for them and they would answer me if they could. And the baby, she would be crying, screaming from hunger alone.
I don’t know how long it has been, maybe hours. There is a dim morning light that ribbons through. There was no fire. That’s what surprised me, scared me the most; the thought of us burning, burning, turned into torches of flame. Just a blast of orange than black as the house fell away. I’m in the cellar, pinned down by the first and second floor. Still clutching Jennie’s little pink sleeper from the laundry. The kids were upstairs in their rooms. I don’t know where they are now.
I cry out for them. Blood gushes from some place in my core with every syllable of name. Sticky, now slowing down. I should but I won’t because it won’t matter; I should hold the pink sleeper against the wound. But I can’t.
I drift in and out. Call when I can and listen. Drift out just waiting to hear them. Listening so hard it takes too much strength I don’t have.
I wake to noise and bright lights. Men shouting. I hear movement right over my head. I hold my breath listening, waiting for the squeals of the baby, the screams of my daughter and son. Hoping this time they’ll answer, this time they will.
Each breath is shallow and silent. I hear no jubilation, no shouts of discovery, no emergency sirens screaming away.
Someone is close, pulling back rubble, the lights trying to reach me, the sun poking through. I shrink back into the darkness, safe from the day and the reality of what our lives, my life would be if they find me. I close my eyes and wait patiently, still listening. I’m sure I hear the baby cry now.
