Defy

With a flash of blinding light an explosion rumbled in the distance, shattering the only remaining window pane in the dilapidated two-story house. With a trained, almost casual reaction an elderly woman dropped to the floor, then hid under an oaken wooden table, waiting. She was waiting for minutes, but the second explosion didn't come. It usually doesn't, but on those rare occasions it does it's better to be safe than sorry. She wasn't looking forward to pulling tiny shards of glass from her forearm ever again.

After a few deep and calming breaths she stood up, brushing dust and pieces of stone ceiling from her patched old dress, it's dark burgundy color faded years ago. Exiting the building she walked at a brisk pace, calling out to her neighbors.

'Jamil, are you okay? Is Hanna okay too?' 'Yes, we're fine!' she heard a reply from an older man, who peered out from behind a splintered window panel. 'Can you check on Simmons'? They live much closer, I'm afraid they could have been hit'

Jenna swore, then, picking up pace, continued along the street packed with short houses standing close one to another. Many of their walls collapsed, some inside the buildings, crushing the wooden floors into dust, some outside, forcing remaining townsmen to clear up the rubble into precarious piles. Nothing was left of busy packed streets; no more street vendors peddling their colorful cotton shawls and sweet fruits; no more idle crowds taking up the entire street, exchanging latest gossip between themselves, shouting so that residents from higher up floors could join the conversation.

What was left is only a few of the sturdier buildings, not fazed by the distant and close explosions that seemed to happen more often every day. Only bravest and most resilient families remained, others have fled further the city.

Jenna considered herself neither brave, nor resilient woman. 'Just an old crone who is too stubborn to leave,' fleeing locals labeled her. Short, somewhat frail, with callous hands from all the work in the garden and a brown skin from the sun flaring all year round.

Simmons' were a young couple that moved in a few months ago. Quiet and polite they didn't ask too many questions and didn't give too many answers. Local people weren't too inquisitive and helped youngsters with any food they could spare. If your choice was to stay in the godforsaken place over anything else, perhaps there were scarier things than a country at war.

Jenna followed the tiny wisp of smoke in the air, acrid smell of burning penetrating her nostrils. As she turned a corner her heart dropped and an overpowering taste of metal settled on her tongue. Simmons' house was missing two of it's walls. Remaining two were blackened with soot and a fire was eating at the wooden beams of the floor above, remains of it scattered on the pebbled streets.

'Harry! Miranda! Are you okay?' she cried.

Dead silence reached her ears, only sound of cracking fire interrupting otherwise distressful and eerie scene.

Jenna walked over to the remains of the house, stepping around burning debris. A smell of burning flesh hit her nostrils like hammer strikes an anvil and she recoiled, covering her face with a sleeve. Her eyes fell onto a crimson mass on the floor of the building. A few ivory-colored bones were poking out from the heap, scarlet blotches all over the ivory walls. What previously was, unmistakably, a lower jaw was embedded into remains of a doorway, ruby pieces of flesh and tissue still attached to it. Jenna gaged and vomited, staggering outside. It took her minutes to regain composure, but not before she heard a sound like a dogs howl coming somewhere from inside a house.

Standing up Jenna went to investigate the noise, shifting pieces of stone, trying her hardest not to look into direction of a flesh bundle on the floor. After a minute of work she noticed an old metal ring handle of a trapdoor, then pulled, a few crumbs of stone rolling to the floor.

A pair of eyes met hers. Eyes full of dread and terror. Then, a face peered out, dried streaks of tears mixed with dust on his cheeks. A boy, no older than five or six, dirty blond hair, a gaping bleeding wound on the right side of his head. His shocked expression made Jenna's heart skip, he looked so much like her son did when he was misbehaving and realizing that the retribution from his mother was coming.

'Up you go, sweetie,' she pulled him up from below the house, and, covering his eyes, lead outside. Ripping the hem of her battered old dress she made a makeshift bandage over his tiny head, putting pressure on the bleeding wound.

'Let's get you to safety', she whispered in a reassuring tone, then, grasping his hand firmly, pulled him towards her house.

Passing the bad news to her neighbors she walked still silent boy to the last remaining well pump in the city. Washing his wounds and applying a bandage made of a cleaner cloth she sat in front of the boy.

'What's you name, love? How did you get into that house?'

The boy finally met her eyes, then opened his mouth, a groan escaping his throat.

'Okay,' she squeezed his shoulder, 'maybe you can tell me your name?'

The boy coughed, then made another grunt, opening his mouth wide to vocalize what sounded like an 'Aaaa'.

'I see. Well, you're going to stay with me. You'll be safe, I promise.'

He nodded, then winced, pressing his little palm to the bandage.

'Let's get you some food for now.'

Over the next few weeks boy seemed to warm up to Jenna. He seemed very polite and brave for his age, always helping her do the dishes and bringing water from the well. Jenna quickly learned how to understand his gestures, when he was hungry or scared. Jamil and Hanna helped were kind enough to provide extra food for the boy. Kids were not seen around here for so long, his presence seeming to invigorate the couple.

One evening, Jenna dug out one of the remaining books from one of a recently burned down buildings. The cover was blackened and some pages were missing as if ripped out to be used as kindling. Sitting down on the floor together on a heap of old linen sheets and pillowcases she read him a story from the book.

'Okay, so this one starts somewhere in the middle, let's see...'

"I proclaim you a traitor, a fraud! By a royal decree, take him away and clap him in irons." - "No, please, prince Albert!"

The boy suddenly raised his head and made an excited noise, a long drawn out 'aaa!'

'You like that name? Prince Albert?'

'Aaa!'

'Of course, my dear boy! I will call you Albert from now on.'

They stayed on the floor, Jenna reading the story aloud; of knights and princesses, of kingdoms and betrayals, of cheats and righteousness. Albert fell asleep on her lap, as he usually did. She smiled, then extinguished the candle. Pulling the curtains close she returned back to the makeshift bed and closed her eyes, her frail old hand grasping Albert's tiny one.

Boom.

An explosion, as close as ever, shattered the building besides theirs, debris flying everywhere and hitting the walls with almighty tremors. Albert woke up with a start and started screaming, a high pitched voice penetrating sudden silence of the night. Jenna embraced him and scrambled to hide under the table, holding his tiny body against her chest.

'It's going to be okay, Albert, it's going to be okay,' Jenna whispered into his ear.

'Mama is not going to leave you, Albert'

A distant, high-pitched whistle was getting closer, a white flash of light shone onto the dilapidated house, then burst with a force of a burning sun. A searing pain reached their equally frail bodies, and, in a second, they were gone.

Only thing was peeking from below the ruins of a house - a pair of intertwined palms of an old woman and a boy.