I remember the poppies; I remember them with clarity, how they would swish and sway to the melodious tune of doves, humming as they spread out across the land to hunt, play, and live. I remember the grass, how it would unleash a refreshing, earthy scent which I couldn’t help but bend down to smell. I remember sitting at my desk, trying to solve the algebra equations my math teacher had assigned me, but I could not focus because of the sublime sunset. Gazing off to the vast, endless horizon was one of the peculiar hobbies I had, which I still keep to this day, but it felt weird. It felt weird because the horizon had changed; it had become desolate and melancholy, covered in ashes and the blood our remaining soldiers had left for us to see—a reminder that although they tried their best, we were defenseless without them.
I never wanted to leave.
I wanted to frolic in the meadows near my home for what the rest of my days offered. I wanted to get a degree in filmmaking and become a renowned actress. I wanted to become the poster girl of Hollywood. I wanted to do so many things, so many—impossible things. But my childish desires had to come to an end eventually.
I believe childish desires usually end as a person slowly grows up and sees the ugly truth of the world. The transition is not favorable, but it’s slow, steady, expected… They could still have dreams to fulfill, just not the dreams of the child they once were desired. I would’ve given up anything to have had my childish desires end that way.
I suppose my dreams changed as well; my childish dreams changed after I heard the first explosion, after I was misplaced from my family, after I sat by the radio, after I prayed to the Lord, prayed that someone took heed of our situation, became our savior, or that the men who emerged from the enemies had mercy. Being a Hollywood actress no longer mattered—surviving did.
I never understood why we were the ones suffering for their bickering. I couldn’t have understood because no one would explain anything to me. The only explanation I had of what was happening was what I sensed around me: the blood staining my clothes, the sounds of explosions as I sat curled up in the bunker, the cries of the crowd as they evacuated, and the ashes of the people I once loved. What I sensed never really explained why this was happening.
They took everything from us, from me. All I was left with was a stuffed bear that was barely holding itself together, the buzz of the radio which we could somewhat rely on to tell us whether we would live or die, and the blurred memories of the past, of how our family would gather every Sunday night to watch post-war movies. I could never have imagined that I had to survive in the dystopian world I could only see in the movies, and I wish it could’ve stayed unimaginable, but it didn’t.
The truth is I have to fight for rations. I had to relocate countless times due to bomb threats. I have to survive on the remaining drops of the plain, bitter hope I have left, for this war has taken everything except for hope—hope is all I have left. Even if it is false, even if it is bitter, it’s all I have left—but I think I’m running out.
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