I’m not quite sure how I ended up here. How it is that I am sitting on these steps, with the chatter and buzz of families and friends coming together around me, closed up in my own isolated island.
I am barely aware of the noise around me. Barely conscious of the children flocking to their parents for support. Barely acknowledging the parents making sure that everyone is accounted for, that everyone is ready for when their number is called.
Three days ago, I was just like all of them. Three days ago I had a husband and two beautiful little girls.
And now I only have a crushing pain inside my chest and memories of the past 72 hours that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
If there is any God, don’t let my number be called. Let me still be here when the final attack comes and the bombs drop on the city.
And then I will be reunited with at least part of my family. Although I can’t be sure if I will spend eternity with my babies, or wreaking vengeance on my husband in hell.
In response to Picture Prompt #6.