Hunger Aches (2)
Same event, different character.
It’s all very cliché, but I find a certain solace in writing it.
From the third-floor window, I watch the tide of people surging below. Some tear at one another, mirroring the news reports from across the globe. Blood gradually stains every inch of clean pavement surrounding those who fall.
The screams echo inside our apartment. Soon, they congregate at the entrance of my building—some clawing for refuge, others hunting those inside.
They break through easily; they are a force of nature. I hear the shrieks and the chaotic tumble of bodies ascending and falling through the stairwell. I see a few souls hurling themselves from windows, followed closely by others.
They will be here soon.
I look at my son, and the terror etched onto his face wrings my heart with agonizing force. I cannot let them take him from me. With a forced smile, I try to offer him comfort, guiding him toward his room to settle his nerves. I wrap him in an embrace—one stronger than the crack of my weathered pistol. The grief makes it nearly impossible to breathe. My heart now lies lifeless in my arms. If there is a God witnessing this, I hope He understands the weight of my hand and allows me to reunite with my little boy in whatever follows this world.
The gunshot drew them like moths to a flame. I steady myself, desperate for the chance to see him again. But the only time luck was ever on my side was the day he was born; when I pull the trigger, nothing happens.
Now, surrounded and with no way out, I beg my son’s forgiveness, wherever he may be.
I’m going to be late again...
..."
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