NOTE: Although inspired by real-life occurrences, the events depicted in this story are fictitious. I wrote this over a year ago, but decided to rewrite it as an early dedication for world refugee day this June. If you are easily triggered by graphical depictions of violence and abuse, then please proceed with caution.

HE WAS WIDE awake when his mother vomited for the third time that evening. Her stomach had churned in such a rampageous manner so abruptly, that she could not reach the toilet bowl on time. She expelled the dark brown mucus and bilious matter out into the air—a few feet from their cold mattress—and spattered their worn-out rug, as she made her way to the hallway.

Earlier that day, she travelled across town to access food, as their district had run out of clean water. The boy told his mother to visit a doctor on her way, in which she refused to do; the money was better spent on her children.

But he couldn't care less for the chunk of bread that he was forced to eat, or the cold soup he had regularly if the former would not suffice. For a month, his appetite never recovered and he was less inclined to eat. What tormented him most, was having to see his sick mother show no signs of getting better.

When the woman had reached the crowded market that morning, she paused for a moment to take in the lively scene. Various stalls had lined the route, from dry fruits and vegetables, to raw meat and milk, with winged mosquitoes hovering above them, buzzing and biting. Her eyes roamed each one as she found it hard to swallow. She couldn't afford any of the luxuries with her current pay. Instead, she moved to the store selling broad beans and tahini.

As she waited in the never-ending line to claim her weekly bread, she instantly recognized her first love. The man she was supposed to have been wed to. He was trundling his wheelchair down the slope, along the path between wet black mounds, before working his way through the dense crowd.

He had a remarkable face, and the woman could spot the leonine head of grey hair, brushed back. He looked quite serious despite the permanent smile, and melancholic eyes that told stories of their own. His scars remained after the tragedies of war, shutting himself out from the world as a result. 

The sun shone brightly, revealing deep lines on his face, as his keen brown eyes under level eyebrows had met with her gentle ones. They stared at one another—as if absorbing each other's features would make up for lost time—before his eyes lit with warmth. A warmth she had craved so deeply since the major unrest in her country had begun. 

Suddenly, the woman's face was struck with fear like a wave of fire. While he'd grown used to people being cautious of him, her fear had struck him like an austere slap across his face. But he was so wrong, for she never once feared him. She wished she could have told him so, but it was too late. 

Another slew of bullets rained, whizzing past them. The very next thing she registered was his expression as it dropped and replaced with a splatter of blood. Before she could think, she was on the ground as a bullet had hit her hands.

No one could have expected it. More shots were fired, and a passerby was shot in the leg, his blood splattering all over the woman's head. It all happened so fast. Guns were blazing, and people were dying all around her.

Following what felt like a perpetuity of the shooting, they began stepping on the few individuals still alive, from youngsters to the elderly, pounding on them with the rifle butts.

After the poundings on her back, two men, much younger than her, pinned her to the ground. All the woman could do was numbly shake her head as she understood what was happening. She felt something going around her neck, as a sweaty hand ran up the length of her legs, sticking it beneath her dress. 

She kept pleading with them to let go, but in vain. They commanded her to keep quiet, or they'd kill her. Her cheek split. Her lip split. Blood flooded her mouth.

She fought as they pried her legs apart. But they were far too strong, forcing her arms above her head as one man bared down on top of her. She wanted them to stop, she wanted to scream, she wanted to do a lot of things. She did none of them.

The wounded passerby beside her was not yet dead. The woman didn't know what he looked like, with his face and body covered with blood. She could not tell the colour of his hair, or skin. At that point, she never knew how people really looked. But she knew that he saw her. He could see her soul leaving her body, her heart crying out loud for help—it was clear in his fear-stricken face.

He was still watching when both men took turns thrusting into her, leaving her in agonizing pain. He must have seen her dying. And she begged him, with lifeless eyes, to do something. Anything. But all he did was blink his eyes shut, keeping still.

When the man with the most horrendous face she'd ever seen finished with her, he whispered, "You're lucky I let you live." He proceeded to join the rest of his unit, in which one of them—their leader, she presumed—halted at the sound of a bitter cry. It was just the shrieking of a three-month-old baby, but to him, it sounded more like an air raid siren. 

She felt nauseous. Innocent children were brutally taken away from their mothers. Screaming, pleading, and outbursts of despair were all in vain. In a matter of seconds, there was absolute silence, as the detainees were once more shepherded into the horizon. The woman could not help but wonder whether the world had ceased its crying, or she had stopped breathing.

Laying unconscious on the scorching ground, she felt a silent stream of tears down her face more fervently than before. The man next to her jerked himself awake, not once looking towards her direction. She watched him as he became smaller and smaller until he seemed like a doll...then a speck...and then he ceased to exist. 

She died a little more.

The woman itched to stand up, and scrub her body clean from the filth that had scarred her like a tattoo. Shifting her weight onto her elbow, she weakly got up—revealing her blood-soaked dress—and dragged herself back to the shelter. She felt the warm stickiness of blood down her arm, and her ears rung as she hunched beside a crumpled building. Pressing a hand against a falling debris, she rubbed her other hand over her face, fighting to regain control over her breath. She was unaware of how much time had passed and her heart kicked in her chest when she thought of her sons. 

She had left her little two-year-old in the care of her older son. Although her eldest was very reliable, never once disobeying her orders, play was rather flirtatious with him.

He hadn't gone out for weeks prior to that day, for the strikes that took place at night would easily make the glow of the moonlight—along with the early rays of the sun—vanish behind a toxic haze of smoke. It was no wonder his mother was always so suffocated; the streets never stopped reeking of death. 

Even now, hearing the blaring sounds of explosions never failed to shake him. He wished the sound of his mother's gagging would mask the blasting and screaming coming from outside, just for once.

For a week, however, the evening twilight had been strangely silent. Not a single gunshot was fired, and darkness came like a thick velvet curtain, surrounding them. The only light was from the glare of small lit candles on the window sills, and the silence of their room turned their bloods cold, as the autumnal air crept through the broken window.

To rejoice, a fair amount of individuals had come out of their locked homes during the day, crowding the streets once more. His mother had ordered him not to go out. He was tempted to do otherwise.

When he'd reached the old and butchered garden in the middle of the square, he squatted in front of them. What was a collection of the most vibrant blooms had become a repulsive yellow meadow. A tiny ant crawled out of an iris, meandering over the scattered flowers that laid on the grass like frosted flares.

He held a daffodil in his fingertips so it would not touch his scraped palms. The petals were curling and stiff, crackling in the frigid breeze. He wondered how the dazzling lemon-coloured flower was the only one of its kind that was still surviving. He admired its bravery. It had something he'd forever lost—hope. 

And that's when he heard it, the blatant wailing and someone shouting, "Prepare to die!"