THE BOY sat up beside his mattress, shivering, as he placed his hands over his ears to serve as a shield towards the terrifying shouts. How strange that it wasn't as raucous as that day. Perhaps that was why it made him so guilty. The silence in his mind soon became an uproar of seething sounds, a dim cauldron of venomous hisses.

"They have found us," he had thought back then, daring himself not to tear up. At first, he was hesitant. It could have been a false alarm, that which the bored children would have played. It wasn't uncommon.

For the first time, he looked at the sun. The majestic star that could have easily cooked up the world were it close enough, had beamed ever so brightly above. He suddenly became angry at the sun, for giving him the false hope that the day would pass. He needed it to reflect his inner turmoil, his pain, the horror he lived in.

The sound of someone shrieking, as if being stabbed to death, chimed in his ears. He immediately got up and ran as fast as his little legs dared to go, lifting his feet high to avoid tripping. Tears were brimming in his eyes. He only slowed down when, upon arrival, the corner of his eyes spotted a group of people approaching in troops from the edge of the street. They were shouting out, "God is great!".

As he got in the house, his chest felt heavy with fear when he'd found his baby brother wailing in his tiny voice. He had to stop his crying, or they'd both be heard. He scooped his brother in his arms and went in hiding inside the dilapidated stove. His brother thrashed around in his hold, but his hands kept a hold on the little one's tiny figure, restraining him firmly seeing to it that his grip was not painful. He tried soothing him with words of comfort into his ear, to no avail, as he stirred himself restlessly in his arms.

Beads of sweat rolled down the boy's temples, falling on his brother's face, the saltiness of it stinging him. He couldn't keep in the stream of tears on his cheeks when he heard loud banging on the neighbouring house's door. In a split second, there was screaming, shooting, and it only made his brother cry even more.

He pressed his brother tightly against his chest while covering his ears. The banging resumed on another's house's door. They were close. He should have used some of their modest furniture, at the least, to block the door. He caressed his brother's hair to appease him, and to his success, the little one's body quit trembling and his breathing stalled. The boy shut his eyes rigidly, his hand covering both of their mouths, as tight as he could, almost snapping the little one's neck as he pushed further down.

When the crashing began in their house, the boy was sure they would be butchered. His right hand moved upward to his brother's ear, as his body pressed against the other. Before he could let out a cry, he swiftly covered the youngster's mouth, leaving him panting underneath. He prayed to God for their lives as the men outside shot the children that tumbled for safety.

Hours later, their mother was frantic when she'd looked all over the place for them. She screamed as she lifted open the stove's lid, finding her elder son panic-stricken with blisters all over him and her youngest, dead.

The next morning, the boy awakened early. He had gone out into the street, as he'd been intent on finding some flowers for his brother's burial.

That day in particular, he did not mind the noise of the surrounding bustle. He watched the other kids for a while as they ran and laughed, before heading to the square once more. He trod heavily while walking past the children, as it reminded him of his poor brother. Tears came to his eyes, burning their way to his eyelids, leaving a scorched and acrid path.

Upon his arrival, it discouraged him to see the rest of the blooming flowers engulfed with dry blood. He sat down and laid his head on his knees. For once, he did not let his mind ponder why the sky was so blue, how different in taste loaves of bread were in other lands, or why there was so much bitterness in the world. All at once, his mind filled to the brim with everything and nothing. Suddenly, a voice inside him told him to return home.

On the way back, he almost stumbled as he rammed into the wall's corner. It wasn't a wall. Before the soft body hit the pavement, he held on to her, hoisting her back up. It was a young girl he'd seen on his way to the square—who had lifted her sister up from the muddy pavement. His warm, tanned hands encircled her forearms, which, on closer inspection, were a lot paler than when he'd seen her earlier from afar.

He stared down at the girl in front of him. Their breaths felt heavy for a moment. She wasn't as good-looking as his mother, but the boy was lost in her. The radiance in her caramel eyes had kindled something in him that made him aware he had spent his life in a haze of half-feeling. Although, it wasn't clear to him how old she might have been. She was tall enough to be fifteen, thin enough to be eleven, and shattered-looking enough to be twenty-six.

Before he could utter an apology, his mother called his name. Upon looking at her, her eyes had lost her sparkle, and even her hair—golden and would drape down softly curling along the ends, like swirls of buttermilk—had lost its brilliance. Her presence became unclear. He tried focusing on her face. The more he stared, the fuzzier her image had become. What was happening?

His question was soon answered when aircrafts began crowding the sky. The noise they created was thunderous. The first thing he did was to instruct the girl to run for cover. The girl stood still, afraid, and not moving. He immediately took her by the hand, and before he could cross the street to reach his mother, bombs had descended from the sky.

One of the barrel bombs fell through a shaft in the home a few blocks away, filling the ventilation with chlorine as it broke open. The basement had become a makeshift gas chamber. Their eyes bore witness to the houses burning across the street. He felt panicked, but he could not get his mouth to work, to call his mother's name. A fragment of a bombshell then hit him, and blood began gushing out of his body. His joints protested as he tried jerking himself back up, unwilling to carry out his commands.

A cacophony of death, grime and flesh thudded against the surface. Father's choking their cries, children with snot splaying in the dry soil, and a smell of sulphur filled the air and iron in his mouth. The entire region was in flames, and the fire was spreading to the nearby rising buildings.

The boy didn't understand how a pilot could simply press the button to bomb an entire district. How could he sleep, how could he eat? His heart was pounding as his head began spinning. His body racked with coughing as he tried to empty his lungs from dust. The rocky weight that laid atop his chest made it impossible to move, and his violent coughing caused him to gasp for gulps of air, only allowing further dust and dirt to enter.

A quiet sobbing that he somehow heard over all the dissonance, had belonged to the little girl, forcing him back to reality. The boy heard a woman's wail and wondered if it was his mother's.