Teenage Refugee

• Dane Winter, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2018

The world explodes.
Rubble flies and ash fills the air. I cough and splutter, desperately clinging to Mum as we run, while Milana, my sister, is carried in the arms of my father.
The deluge continues. The bombs keep coming. Distant sirens wail and lights flicker erratically, cascading across the beaten city. We enter a tunnel and a swarm of screaming people engulf us. Dad hands me Milana and yells, “Wait here!” Then Mum and Dad are gone.
I crouch in a damp corner, my sister wrapped in my arms. We later emerge to find the ash settling. A cold wind stings my face as I, white knuckled, clutch Milana’s hand. A brutal burning inflames my throat and Milana struggles to swallow. The longing for water is urgent.
Where are Mum and Dad? I frantically scan our surroundings. This Syrian town I call home is unrecognisable. Rubble and hurt people are everywhere. I’m relieved and distressed in equal measures. I cannot see my parents among the dead, but neither can I see them among the living.
Desperate for water, we head toward the faraway well.
Finally, we arrive and I pull up a bucket of wonderful, life-giving water. We fall on it, indulging in its beauty, fulfilling our thirst. It tingles my tongue and flows down my throat like a gushing waterfall.
Later, Milana snores lightly in my lap. Eventually I, too, fall into a fitful sleep.
Suddenly a nearby engine screams and we wake as a derelict vehicle grinds to a halt and a bearded man steps out. An ammo belt slung across his sizable chest glints in the sunlight.
“Get in!” he commands. With little choice, we scramble into the vehicle.
“Do you know where our parents are?” I say, trembling, as we bump along the road.
“The refugee camp, probably. If they’re still alive. I’ll drive you.”
If they’re still alive.
Hours later…
Milana slumps in her seat and starts convulsing. “Please help!” I scream as her mouth foams. The car screeches to a stop. Our accomplice pulls us out, roughly. The man leaps back into the vehicle and takes off in a spray of gravel.
I scream and scream until there is no more noise. Tears roll down to my tattered, blood-soaked pants. I want to give up, but instead I lift my unconscious sister. I take one step and then another, staggering along the dusty track, my only orientation the road and the fumes of the long-gone vehicle. This is our last hope.
Hours later I see a shimmering fence around hundreds of tents. I burst through the gate and survey the crowd, but my anxiety swallows me. I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE! WHERE ARE THEY?
Then I recognise something. The colours purple and red.
Mum?
My crusty lips form a smile and my eyes fill with tears. Holding Milana, I run into her arms. My heart explodes then melts. I have found my mum. Love oozes from her heart, mending my broken soul.