They were empty, scared, lost. They took their fears out on him, in their slurs, stones, and screams. He reached for his revolver, knowing well that bullet holes couldn’t fill their souls, but that was too much to ask for anyway. He tried to buy time. He sat on the second floor with the window open, and pulled the trigger at the space in-between them. 1 shot. 1 foot back. 10 seconds. 10 inches forward. Their wave undulated until his trigger no longer held its power. They surged forward, crashing on the house. He yelled for his kids and wife to run, and stood, waiting for the sea to strike him. His family stood chipped, far away from the fight, but he lay at the epicenter of it all, smashed in a million pieces.
They fled the danger zone, searching for disaster relief. He was one of many. They were a few of thousands. Victims by confusion, refugees by ignorance, lost in turmoil. Displaced from their homes, their hopes, and dreams.
I’m sorry you couldn’t be there to support them. Support your wife, freshly widowed and diagnosed with bipolar disorder, stuck living with half of her dead. Support your oldest daughter, with her keen mind and saddened eyes, who learned to fly to search for you in the skies. Support your middle son, whose intelligence took him far overseas, but too far without your guidance, as his vices painted his path. Support your youngest daughter, crying over books as she thirsted for knowledge, the only thing no one could take away from her.
With time, their chips repaired, their bruises faded, their hopes reappeared. I have reincarnated your youngest daughter’s dreams, but even I have bullet holes I cannot fill. I’m sorry we could never meet.
About the author: Harnoor is a 2nd year medical student at Sidney Kimmel Medical College at Thomas Jefferson University. Struck with a writing bug and a love for science from an early age, she has always found herself shuffling between the two, finding science to be poetically mesmerizing and finding poetry to be truer than scientific fact.