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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2015065
Rated: 18+ · Other · Tragedy · #2015065
Voice of minor character, wife of protagonist. She never gets to say this in the story.
         I don't care if I live or die. I lost two children. They died violently at the hands of criminals. One was two years old and ripped from my hands, slaughtered by some psycho soldier on the streets. The other was almost five and was shot by a bullet through the apartment wall by some gang member. I am numb inside. No, I have so much pain I can't feel it.

         Our apartment building was attacked so many times, my husband forced me to leave it. I would have stayed there and died, too, but he dragged me out after packing his truck with supplies. I am alive because he forces me to live. I sit in the truck and feel the horror over and over. He drives for hours. He forces me to get out and stretch, to go to the bathroom. He makes me sip water. He even makes me eat, sometimes spoon-feeding me. I don't want to survive, and that's all he can think about. He's living just to keep me alive, and I don't want that.

         Before things fell apart, I loved him. He loved me and the children. Even though money was tight, and the news was getting worse each day, we were a happy family. When the gangs started taking over the neighborhoods and fighting for control, we just stopped going out to play. One of us would sneak out for supplies and sneak back. Jobs were scarce. Variety in food was getting low. We started stock piling some things.

         Then the bullet hit when a gang attacked our floor. We made arrangements, had a service and a low scale burial. I held on to my baby tighter than ever. Jim didn't seem to suffer as much as I did, but I knew he was sad. A week after the burial, things were quiet, I went out with the baby to buy bread. We never made it home. A jeep came up from out of nowhere, some men jumped out. A guy with his head covered grabbed my baby. Right in front of me, before I could react, my hands still reaching out, he slaughtered my child. I fell to the ground, they disappeared with screaming from somewhere. Jim found me in the street later. Some man had pulled me out of the street and propped me against a lamp post.

         I suppose I should be grateful. Jim took me home, cleaned me up and just held me the rest of the night. I heard him talking to people, but I have no idea who. He packed our bags without telling me what he was doing. I didn't ask. I didn't care. he had boxes from somewhere which he filled with all our canned goods, batteries,etc. He got out all the tools, a can opener, and just a few pans, 2 plates, etc. I don't know what else. Those are just the things I saw then or since we've been on the road.

         I will take drugs if only I could find some. Something to make me forget, to take away the images, to make my heart stop hurting. If I had enough courage or energy, I'd end my life. I might if I could ever get out of Jim's sight. He'll let up eventually. He thinks I'm going to get better. I know I won't. I hate him for not suffering like I do. I want him to feel the pain I do. They were his kids, too. Where was he when our children died? Why didn't he leave the city before this happened? I hate him for trying to save me.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2015065