Way Before The War Had Started

• Bec Marriott, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2018

It was around me. It was in me. I could feel it. It was here. It wasn’t here.
“Stop!” I yelled, “Please. Just stop. I can’t take it anymore. You happy now? YOU HAPPY?!”
I started sobbing. I knew that I was weak. This whole thing had proved to me that I wasn’t who I thought I was. I wasn’t Jack. Jack was dead. Jack had died a long time ago. Way before the war had started. Now all that was left was the soul of him. The soul that kept pushing through this mess. The soul that was now slowly dying in this chair, in the hands of the enemy. I had started out with my family but ended up alone. Lonely is the best. Trust no one. That’s what Mumma had said. That’s what she had always said. Way before the war had started. After Mumma had run away, leaving me and my brother alone, I had to look out for myself. My brother was getting sicker and sicker each day. He missed Mamma a lot more than I did. Than I do. Eventually, I had to leave him. When he died, Jack died too. I ventured out beyond our little town. Every now and then I had to duck for cover because of the bombs. There were so many bombs. They used guns and tanks and bombs. There are so many bombs. I kept walking for ages. Finally, I saw an old house. Thinking of my low rations, I went inside, never thinking that it could be a trap. Which it was. The enemy took me here, tied me up, and tortured my, day in, day out. They wanted to know all sorts information. I refused to tell them. Mostly because I didn’t know anything, but partly because I wanted them to think I was important so they didn’t kill me. But now I wished they would kill me instead of tying me up and plugging wires into me like I’m a computer. When they're done they take me back up to my cell. Out of everything here, the cell is the worst. It’s white everywhere; white floors, white walls, white ceiling. Even a white door, which you would miss if you weren’t told. The cell is bare. Completely bare. I there’s no chairs to sit on, no bed to sleep in. I have to pee myself because there’s no toilet. I miss my old room. It was different shades of green. My name, I mean, Jack’s name was written on the door. My bed was a racing car. I had a desk and a TV. I wish I could go back there. Back before any of this happened. Way before the war had started.