Freedom

• Ruby Crook-english, Grade 10, Brisbane State High School
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Track 2015' competition

In life, there are some stories that can never be told. Things that we must keep secret until we ourselves are secret, our imprint on the world a mere essence of shadows. Only then can the stories be told; the cold, hard truth. What really happened. But if there is no one to listen, our voices simply cry out. This cry has no hope; it is hindered by pain that would forever plague a lost and ageing mind. If there is no one to listen, we awaken in the middle of the night, shaking with fear, our lips screaming words to those we lost. It is always the same word. It is always the same fear. Run.

Run, we cry, run! But where is there to run to? Time has passed, and we are no longer starving, frozen, dreaming of death - hoping for it. We are here now, safe and old, with children and grandchildren who never had to face the brutality we did. Who believe that their freedom is due to them, and would never have to imagine fighting for it. Seeing is believing, and that much is known. How can you imagine brutality if you never had to experience it?

They say that it was the war to end all wars; and although Germany may have been vanquished, and the war won, there are some of us who do not rejoice. We sit, instead, by the fire, staring senselessly into the flickering flames at splutter so within the hearth. We think of what could have been, what should have been, and what we will now do. And although many of us has lost someone, there are those of us who believe that we can never go on, those of us that believe the war they fought with such bravery and belief was not worthwhile. But we can only wish they could have seen the result of their actions. We only wish they could have seen the way the Victory day brought about new life in our country, that failing spark reenergised.

We wish they could be with us to celebrate, to wave coloured flags in the air and smile and laugh and be happy. We wish we could link our hands through theirs and dance until we saw the next days sun kiss the tips of the world and awaken once again; but the agony is that we shall not, and nor shall we ever, for they are dead, and lying quietly, with a bullet through their brain, slaughtered like the hundreds of thousands of others in the midst of battles. Slaughtered like cattle.

But then we realise they did not die in vain. For here we are now, with the world at our feet, a freedom so great and a paradise that dances around us, crying and singing with what we have lost, but also with what we have gained.

We have gained our freedom from this dystopia of war, and for that I am thankful.