Night of Fresh Wounds
It is midnight when the bomb alerts sounds. But before most can exit their lavish or rat-infested homes, the planes are upon the town. Gysers of dust and rock spray as shells hit the frozen earth. The mid-December night trembles with every screeching descent. The single bomb shelter soon fills, and people must take to the basement of the Court Building. It is there, huddled in a dark, damp corner, that we find ourselves huddled, trying to share warmth as we wait for the never-ending raid to cease so that we may return to our wrecked homes. A woman, around age twenty-one, cries out. Her words burn through the sounds of the explosions outside.
"My child! My child is ready to be born! Please help me!"
Moments of silence pass and she wonders, as she cries her plea again, if anyone will help.