Dark

• Benjamin Weeks, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2014

The streets used to be illuminated by the powerful lights glowing throughout the city, matched with sky scraping glass buildings poking through the pillow grey clouds and a bridge that once stretched so far, that the end was lost in the misty fog that swept across the water’s edge.
He used to tell me every day how beautiful San Francisco was before the war. I didn't believe my father. If he was right, the war disagreed with him because now rubble surrounded us, everywhere we looked. Now, buildings lie demolished over the streets, glass and steel protruding from the edges. Darkness cloaks the city with heavy, black clouds and a dust-polluted sky, obscuring the majestic warmth of the sun. The only bridge in San Francisco is a red monstrosity that is submerged in the water surrounded by rusted cars, driven deep into the unknown. Streets, broken with cracks widening by the day as the roots from trees faraway try to regrow. Outside, a light rain falls over fragmented glass and decayed flora, scattered across the deserted intersection. Our home sits on the corner, neatly hidden away amongst the wreckage of cars and fallen buildings.
It’s bright enough outside to lurk around now. I look out from the window, checking for any movement disturbing the desolate life of the city. My father is already up with his dark brown jacket and black tracksuit pants on, his razor-sharp hunting knife hanging from the white belt tightly wrapped around his waist. His dark brown hair, dry and dead, covers his cold, emerald eyes staring at me. Lately my father has been different, his movements and ambitions evil and dark. I know food has been a rarity after nine years of the war but recently, it was brutal how he stole food. Innocent people lay in the streets, blood pouring out over the pavement, bodies broken and gasping for air. Was all of this necessary to get food that would last us a few days? He wasn't staring at me anymore though but at a young woman cradling a small baby, scurrying across the once still intersection.
“No, NO!” I yell at my father as he tries to grab for the handle. I step in front of the sturdy, white door, blocking him from leaving. Now enraged, he violently strikes with a large clenched fist, smashing me in the temple. My body lifelessly falls with a thump, hitting the concrete ground as darkness floods my senses.
Suddenly, my eyes open to see my father chasing the terrified women down. The excruciating screams of the mother and baby resonate through the streets. The sounds of bodies falling to the ground and being dragged fill the four walls of the room. I try to scream out for him to stop, but my mouth is sewn shut. Blood, now spilling over the floor, is forgotten as heavy footsteps approach. A dark silhouette towers over my feeble body, with a razor-sharp hunting knife raised above his head.