Pain Of Loss

• Julian Mok, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2010

Kaira screamed as another missile landed close by, burying her head in the bedsheets. Dust fell from the cracked ceiling in sheets, Peter sheltering the remains of his cold porridge with grimy hands, whisking away the bowl and slurping down its contents with a last gulp. The crackle of automatic weapons reached them through the open window, the resounding thump of artillery echoing further down the street.
“We have to move” growled Uncle Petrov, sneaking cautiously over to the window, its panes smashed long ago by enemy gunfire. Peter watched intently as Petrov took a quick glance then retracted almost immediately as a bullet whizzed past him.
“Get away from the window” Aunt Silvia got up from where she had been nursing baby Leon and bustled over in a flash to pull Petrov away.
“No! Get back!” screamed Peter, seeing the distinctive flash of a rifle firing from a ruin across the street. The bang came a moment later, and Silvia screamed, grasping at her chest where an ominous scarlet stain was spreading.
“Silvia!” Petrov ducked down to her, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. She tried to speak, but all Peter could hear was a gurgle as blood and saliva mixed in her throat. Soon she had stopped moving altogether; Petrov uttering a quiet prayer in what Peter assumed was Old Russian. Silent, his uncle stood stiffly and headed over to a chest in the corner of the room, lifting it with a well-oiled clink. He reached into its confines and retrieved a rifle, cocking it with dreadful finality.
He finally plucked up the courage to ask “Where are you going?” Petrov turned, and Peter flinched, seeing a hard, flinty coldness to his uncle’s eyes.
“I am going to avenge my wife” he growled, grabbing a belt of ammunition from underneath his bed “Stay here with Leon and Kaira, or you’ll die.” And with that he flung open the door and ran outside. The sounds of gunfire and explosions reached Peter’s ears more clearly now, accompanied by the wails and screams of the dying. Without thinking he thrust on his coat and hurried after Petrov. The first smell to hit his nose was death; the tang of cordite, the metallic scent of blood.
He followed the rattle of gunfire down the street, averting his eyes anytime he saw a mangled body lying crumpled in the street or hunched against a wall. As he reached Liberation Square, a place he had often visited as a child, he screamed. Behind him, his street exploded in a cloud of fire, a wave of debris knocking him onto the cold pavement. He felt the bones in his spine crack painfully, but he managed to push himself upwards, ignoring the pain shooting through his body like angry wasps. As he looked down onto his city, he wept, tears carving funnels through the ash staining his cheeks and diluting the blood pooled around his feet. As far as the eye could see, New Moscow burned.