“Shh, stay still, or they’ll hear you,” a young boy said. He was under debris, covering himself in dust to hide.
(Illustration by Darren Waminal/The Communicator)
“Who?” He asked.
“Them,” the boy pointed at the men with weapons—guns and bombs. They were running around the area to ensure no one was left alive.
“Why are you hiding? Are they after you?” the man probed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know either,” the poor little one answered, looking up at the man beside him. For the kid, He seemed too clean for someone who also ran away from the bad people.
“Did you sin against them?”
“No, I did not. I’m just a kid. What can I possibly do to aggravate them?”
The boy’s stomach grumbled. He pressed it hard, trying to alleviate the pain of hunger.
“Do you have food with you?” he asked the man.
Before He could even answer the kid, the loud explosions began again.
The young boy cried. Trembling, he shut his eyes and covered his ears.
When the unending blasts finally seemed to stop, the kid tried to move and crawl out of the rubble.
“Where are you going?” the man asked.
“I’m going to find my parents.”
“But young boy, you’re dead."
“And so are you… but, you are about to rise again tomorrow,” the boy weakly uttered, now trying to reach the man’s hand.
“Will you let me live tomorrow, too?”
Article: Judy Ann Celetaria
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