Dorothy

Run. Fast. Left. Right. Left. Right. Gunshots ringing past my ears. Thundering footsteps. Screams of agony. Cries of children, watching their parents being tortured and killed, right in front of their eyes.

                I ran away from all of that. In the few illegal newspapers that published articles on the massacre, the same phrase was listed. "No Survivors". According to them, I have ceased to exist. Some days, I have to remind myself of that small fact. Alone, here in this small room. With nothing but a bed. Not even a door. Just a large barred window at the far side of the room. It still has the same carvings on the windowsill as it had on that day. Three years ago.

                He saved me from them. And brought me here. And here I have stayed. He used to visit me. With food, toys and games. Books. And paper, to write about my dreams. About what I have seen. I have not seen him for many weeks. He is not dead. But he has forgotten me.

                Aaron. I think that was his name. I remember his face. I see it every night in my dreams. Nightmares. Visions. Realities. I don't even know the difference between them anymore. We are walking home. On a yellow brick road. Except it never leads us home.

                Home. I had one, once. And a family. A mother, a father, a sister, brothers, even a dog. My sister. Jana. I remember her. She taught me how to make necklaces and bracelets with beads and wire. She always smelt nice, like she'd been working in the kitchen. She died first. I found her, lying in a pool of her own blood. Wearing her pretty red shoes. And holding the little red bow that I gave her. I still have those, along with a tiny vial with some hairs from our dog.

                Our dog. Toto. He was had thick brown fur, and he was always warm. Gia used to help me take him out for walks in the park. There was a river there, surrounded by trees. That's where he died. Someone had bent two saplings to the ground and tied them to him. Then they let go. It split him clean in half. My eldest brother found him, one day when he was exploring the park. He always held a shadow of fear in his eyes after that.

                My brother. Jack. He taught me everything. He taught me how to read and write. He taught me how to carve boats and animals from little pieces of wood. He gave me something that they cannot take away. He gave me my brain. He helped me make toys, and together, we made a little "Noah's Ark". Even though my other brother said that we were weird.

                My other brother. Sam. He was always so quiet. He reminded me to live, to love, to believe in myself. He told me that my gift was not to be feared, hated or despised. He said that it was given to me for a reason. To use it for good. He gave me my ability to love. He gave me my heart.

                My brothers. They were always together. That's how they lived. Together. I guess that's how they died.

                I still kick myself, for leaving that day. Because you see, it was all my fault. The massacre. They were not just killing. They were searching. And all those people, my family, my friends. They all stood in the way. To protect me from them. So they couldn't kill me. For what I was. For what I am. Because I see what has passed, what is presently passing and what will come to pass. But not everything. Only sickness. Grief. Loss. Despair.

                Death.