Hush
Stories that go untold and unheard
Screams and cries intensified when another round of shots rang out. Whorls of red and ash pervaded the atmosphere and made the masses run amok. She could smell the horror and death wafting through the cracks of the rickety cupboard in which she hid. Her ears were still ringing as she cowered inside the wooden sanctuary while nestling her baby boy in her trembling arms. She gently kissed his forehead and whispered words of sorrow and protection. Despite the miasma of jarring conundrums that surrounded them, he slept soundly while wrapping his tiny fingers around her thumb. Muffled sobs threatened to escape her lips as she wondered how rancorous a person’s soul could be for them to look at a vessel of innocence and manage to raise a gun towards its heart.
The thick blanket that swaddled his tiny body was pressed over his ears like makeshift earmuffs. Silent prayers left her quivering lips. Prayers that would hopefully get them through this ordeal without having to muffle his fear driven cries. As the minutes ticked by, the acrid scent of gunpowder that leeched through the paper-thin cracks of the wooden cupboard made her want to gag, but she had mastered the art of patience and silence well enough from her past ordeals.
Five months ago, she and her husband resided in a refugee camp located in the heart of the city. It was mostly occupied by orphans and widows. Many fathers, brothers, uncles, and sons were lost while they fought tooth and nail to protect their families. She hoped this safe haven would not be temporary. She was tired of running. All she wished for was to stop running and start living like they were supposed to as human beings. Yet, at the back of her mind, she knew that this sense of safety was ephemeral — a thought that clenched the depths of her exhausted soul. The enemy doesn’t possess a silver of pity. Even if their victims were deprived of limbs, eyesight, hearing, and sanity, they would pull the trigger on those helpless souls in a heartbeat.
On their fourth week at the peaceful refuge, she and her husband were asleep in their tent with their son snoring softly between them. Suddenly, they were startled awake by a deafening sound. When she grabbed her son and followed her husband outside the tent complete chaos unfolded before her eyes. People were frantically rushing out of their tents and attempting to vacate the campsite. Her heart dropped when she realized the cause of this sudden outburst. They were in the middle of an airstrike.
Harsh and hot gusts of wind whipped at her face, and panicked cries filled her ears. Their three month old son was wailing in fear over the clamorous commotion. Wisps of ash, red, and orange caught her gaze from afar. Her heart was beating dangerously fast while beads of sweat ran down her temple. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the flower of smoky flames blooming higher and higher in the distance. Her husband shook her out of her haze and calmly informed her that he was going to help evacuate the rest of the tents in which the orphans resided. She nodded distractedly and was about to tell him to be careful. But her voice was drowned out by the screams that grew louder when a fighter jet was spotted flying towards their area.
Suddenly, her husband started screaming at her to run, so she did. She ran like there was no tomorrow, pushing through throngs of panicked bodies while holding her son’s delicate body tightly against her chest. Her steps grew faster when his cries grew louder. The maternal instincts that surged through her body drove her to keep running despite her burning limbs. As she pushed through the tumultuous crowd, little did she know that she would be the only one fighting for her child’s life from then on.
Two weeks later, she landed herself on the outskirts of the city and was taken in by an old seamstress who had lost her son during a brutal shooting. Everything that happened was a whirlwind that left her no time to breathe, mourn, or scream. Just when she thought things would be okay for a while, she ended up hiding inside a rickety old cupboard with her baby. It was always a game of running and hiding. Always.
When does the game end? With a bullet to the brain or heart, starvation, or being bludgeoned to death.
She stifled a scream when another round of shots went off. Panic started forming in her chest when she saw her son scrunching his face and tugging on the blanket. She rocked him back and forth and attempted to get him to resume his quiet slumber before any cries could escape his lips. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks when his little body finally calmed down. She started counting each of his breaths and tried syncing them with her harried breathing. A couple of seconds later, she let out a sigh of relief and sagged against the splintery wall behind her.
The metallic scent of blood and gunpowder escalated and clogged her senses. This was her worst trial so far. Every bout of pain and tolerance that was thrown her way in the past was nothing compared to this battle. She was her own army. Nausea suddenly took over her body and forced her to let out a moan of discomfort and frustration. Her clothes were damp from sweat and tears, while her mind was consumed with phantoms of the past. She gasped and breathed in a lungful of tainted air. Another round of shots went off.
It was louder this time. Ears ringing painfully, she closed her eyes and enveloped herself in darkness. She could hear her son’s cries, but they sounded so distant. With heavy arms and burning eyes, she tried to soothe him. But the darkness was slowly pulling her in and drowning out her surroundings. If only she could melt every arsenal in the world to keep her baby safe. If only she could bask in the radiance of her homeland and blithely drink in the saturated skies that towered above them. If only she could open her eyes and see her husband. Comforting her and holding her hand. Her now numb, cold, and lifeless hand.
