Keep Calm And Break

• Emily Benson, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

I stare blankly at the children poured out in front of me. Many fumble around in a poor wardrobe, the type my mother would mistake for dishrags. I imagine how she would feel about my outfit too with a pained smile. She would be horrified that today I looked like the other children. My normally perfect brown hair hadn’t been brushed and remained unruly and partially turned grey with dust. My suntanned features are laden with cuts.

I look at my hands for the first time since my arrival at the station and I suppress a squeal. I begin to wipe them down aggressively with my sleeve suddenly frantic. My house, once tall and pearly laden in silk and velvet fabrics was reduced to ash and crumbling debris now occupying my otherwise perfect cuticles. After many weak attempts rid them of their filth my hands are shaking and red raw, my nails inflamed and bleeding. I feel a small tug at the rich fabric of my frilly skirt. I look down to find a small child no older than 5 glancing up at me. Like many others his clothes are bland and decorated with soot. His eyelashes are beautifully long and thick framing dark eyes, His body is lean apart from his rosy, childish cheeks. His lips, which would other wise be full and glossy, are cracked from dehydration and slick with blood from a cut just under his nose. Up close his eyes are shiny and damp, his nose and ears are almost as red as mine. He notions to his hands outstretched and trembling slightly. The boy uncurls his fingers from its grasp on a piece of brown paper; a name tag.

“Do you know what this is.” He asks his voice hoarse and barely audible.
“I do. It's your name tag it which train to take so you can be safe from the bombs.” I tell him as gently as I can manage. I hand the tag back to him and guide him away with a soft hand on his back.
“ They're wrong we are safe no where, the bombs won't stop. This isn't right. They can't take us. ”He protests weakly.
I freeze.
“Its not right.” I repeat.
I fumble around my jacket pockets. My fingers graze across a rough paper tag similar to the boys. I cradle it gently for a moment indecisive then I tear it into two, then three. The beginnings of a smile appear on his face as he does the same.I grab his soft hand with mine and lead him towards the edge of the platform and in one swift movement guide him over the metal fence. We take off stumbling through the trees.

I smile. First I was lost desperate to be found, now I am here, lost and hoping to never be found. Just me, the boy and freedom until death claims us like it did with all the others but unlike the others we’ll die free and triumphant.