A Night of Terror

A writing assignment for class.

That night, it had sounded as if it was thundering. Loud shouts of angry sympathizers were like the thunder to a lightning storm and rocks beat down on the windows like a heavy rain. I can assure you, however, that what happened that night would prove to be far more disturbing than a simple lightning storm.

I was huddled in the closet on the second floor of our home, my heart beating wildly as I clung to my mother, both of us listening intently to what was going on outside. The sounds of revolt had filled the air… Chanting, yelling, chaos, destruction… How could this have gotten so out of control? Father had said it would all be alright, so why did those people want to come and destroy our home? They wanted in, that much was clear. They were banging on the door and shouting at my father to come out and “face the music”. They wanted their revenge. Our terror. Our pain. Me and my family’s ultimate demise.

Huddled in that closet, being both shushed and consoled by my mother, I listened despairingly as they broke down the door and cheered for what, even at that time, seemed like their inevitable success. My father had been stationed behind the couch in the living room. After the door was broken down, I’d heard shots fired, followed by surprise and then triumph, so I could only assume at that time that my father was dead. Sadness and despair washed over me. I’d known then that that was the end.  

It was then like a herd of elephants that they made their way up the stairs, searching with guns loaded. They wasted no time, scouring the house in an attempt to discover where it was that we were hidden. Finally, after little time and what seemed like no effort, someone stopped in front of the closet in which we’d found refuge.

As I heard the knob turn, my heart had begun to pound even faster than before, though I had not thought that possible. In the next few moments, as if in slow motion, the door was opened and a man stepped forward triumphantly. Looking up at this man before us, my mother pleaded in final desperation for him to at least let me go. Of course I couldn’t have meant for all this to happen, she reasoned. It was all a terrible mistake, she cried. Why should a child’s life be cut short for something as trivial as this?

The man wavered and looked uncertainly from my mother to me, apparently having some quick second thoughts on shooting a woman and her young child. Nonetheless, he raised his gun and pointed it at my mother first.

In fearful anticipation for what would no doubt happen next, I lowered my head and covered my eyes. He’d smirked at my cowardice and cocked the gun, taking his time and apparently enjoying the feeling of authority then washing over him. Knowing what was at any moment coming, I started to cry… and just as the tears began to flow, two shots rang out into the night. Feeling nothing, however, I froze. Why was I not dead? Why did I not feel any pain? Was I in heaven? What’s going on? Questions swirled through my mind as I tried to make sense of this phenomenon. I opened my eyes and lifted my head, staring in confusion and, as it registered, shock as the man closed the closet door and shouted his achievement to the others, apparently leading them to believe that I had died as well.  

I had been spared by this cruel and compassionate soul, though I know not

why… And as the protestors cleared out to celebrate, I stayed frozen in the closet, clinging to my dead mother’s body… unsure of what I was to do next.

Author's Note

I copied and pasted and that messed up the (cant think of the word so, for lack of a better term, 'structure') of the piece.