All of East Berlin was in a riot, It was three minutes to midnight, and people were swarming the streets, flocking to the concrete wall like moths to a flame. People were screaming, chanting;

“Tor auf! Tor auf!” Open the gate. Open the gate.

They told the citizens of the German Democratic Republic were free to cross the border into the west. They said that after twenty eight years of the wall bisecting Germany, and nearly a lifetime of being separated from their families that they would be free to pass. They said that they could go home. They told them that they were free.

Beer and champagne flowed freely as everyone waited for midnight to come, anticipating the moment that they’d finally be able to travel to the west side of Berlin for the first time in nearly thirty years with a fervent passion. Everyone was screaming, chanting; hoards of people were descending on the streets to swarm the border, waiting for the moment to strike.

In the midsts of the frenzy was a short, frail looking woman who was trying to push to the front of the crowd like so many others around her. She clutched a handkerchief to her mouth and coughed heavily, wincing at the strain. She wasn’t that old, barely into her fifties, but her health was poor and this chance, this God given luck at the border being opened, could be the last time she would be able to see her sister.

She had been sickly ever since the war had ended, and being trapped in the East with subpar medical access and pitiful food hadn’t helped at all. And she hadn’t seen her sister since, not since the war had ended and their parents were trapped; her mother in the West and her father in the East. The war had broken out when they were just children, they’d both been so young. Would she even recognize each other now that they’ve grown old?

She caught her reflection in a shop window and frowned, coughing again into her handkerchief. Her hair was dull brown and stringy, cut short and choppily. Nothing like how long or thick it had been all those years ago, and her once round face was sharp, with cold, haunted dark eyes and sharp cheekbones.

She used to look so warm and gentle like their mother, with a smile that could melt even the hardest of hearts and eyes that glowed melting chocolate. Now she was cold, harsh, sad. Not one bit like the kind heart their mother had.

She turned from the window with a shake of her head. She didn’t want to think of that, not of the years missed, nothing of the time they’d been apart. That didn’t matter, nothing mattered. Nothing but finding her sister and telling her she loved her before it was too late.

She returned to the crowd, pushing forward again. The Germans were growing frantic; fights were starting now that it was close, so close. People were fighting one another, elbowing and punching and kicking, doing anything they could to get closer to the wall to be the first to cross over into the West. Harshly, she elbowed her way forward too, being kicked and kicking back, even going as far to shove a young man to the ground to climb over him.

And then it was midnight.

The gates were opened, and were instantly flooded with a mass of shouting Germans. People climbed over one another to get ahead in line, the fights got progressively worse the closer to the gates the crowd was. Some didn’t even bother waiting in line, instead fighting their way to the front and scaling the blockade, boosting one another up and climbing over. Others began smashing the wall with picks, shovels, hammers; anything that they could get their hands on to destroy the concrete monster. They were yelling, screaming, and for a brief moment she thought she was a child again, and the soldiers were marching on her home; she half expected shells to start falling from the sky. But no shells came, no gunshots rang out, there was no death. This was not the start of a war or even a battle in one, this was the end of one.

She pushed herself through the gate, she had no chance of climbing over the wall with her health. All she could hope to do was fight her way through quickly and get into the West to look for her sister.

The soviet guard in the checkpoint already looked tired, even though only moments had passed since the gates were open. He waved people through tiredly without checking for much identification beyond a name and birthday.

“Name please,” he mumbled to her, voice lacking enthusiasm or any sort of time at all.

“Anya- Anya Kaiser. Born nineteen thirty-six, Königsberg, now Kaliningrad. Let me through please, I just need to get through.” Her voice was heavy, and she coughed heavily, leaning to one side as those who still waited in line to get through shouted behind her. She shot a worried glance over her shoulder at the shouting mob, out of fear they would swarm over her and trample her to the ground in their fervor to reach the West.

The guard dismissed her with a wave of his hand, gesturing for her to go through. Anya pushed her way through right as a bottle sailed overhead. The crowds grew more hysterical. if that was even possible. The excitement of the event was overwhelming to the East German people; after being kept in misery and darkness for years the slightest glimmer of hope was enough to set everyone off. The fire of the West was shining in their eyes, bringing light and warmth to hearts that had been cold for a long time.

Finally, finally, she was in the west. Her breath hung in front of her face in a spotty cloud, suspended in the cold, November night air. Tears welled up in her eyes and her hands trembled as she held the handkerchief to her mouth. It was a miracle, no one ever thought that they would ever even see the west side of Germany ever again.

The cage was open, they were free.

In the west, the German people were also rioting, if even more so than their eastern brethren. They too were swarming the wall, tearing it down with their own weapons while bulldozers and cranes tore down section by section. They were reaching through the holes they made and clasping the hands of the easterners, or pulling them over the wall to bring them to freedom. For the first time in decades, East and West Germans embraced one another, reunited at last.

Anya didn’t care about a single one of them. The only person on her mind was her sister, her last connection to family. She hadn’t seen her in so long, how old would she be now, forty-three, four? She didn’t know, it hurt to count that far.

She had to be here somewhere, she would have come to find her, right? She would have known that the border was coming down tonight; and there were plenty of other West Germans there, she had to be around somewhere.

“Marta! Marta! Where are you?” she shouted, voice cracking from the strain of talking so loud. “Marta! Marta!”

She had to be somewhere. She had to. She knew this was happening she knew that she’d come to find her. Marta had to have known she’d come to find her. She was here, she had to be.

Panic was turning her bones to ice. The crowd was huge, if she couldn’t find her soon she’d never find her. There were too many people all shouting, she couldn’t even think of what to do.

What if she had died? A lot can happen in thirty years, and Anya wouldn’t have known a thing. She was trapped, locked away in an iron cage, cut off from the rest of the world. People can get sick and die, and Germany had been in a terrible state after the war. Maybe her sister moved away to America to escape the poverty and tragedy that was Germany. Maybe their mother had taken Marta away, leaving her husband and other child behind in a place not even God could reach. Maybe her sister had gotten ill after the war and died, their family wasn’t known for being the healthiest. So much could have happened in those years and she didn’t know a single thing.

Or perhaps Marta wasn’t here because she thought Anya was dead. Maybe her sister had given up home ten, twelve, fifteen or even twenty years ago that she’d ever see her again; sickly and starving with no place to call home on the Soviet side of the wall where death danced among the people as easily as a thief. It was possible that Anya wouldn’t have lived to see the end of Soviet reign in Berlin, that she could have died young from illness or a bullet. Either was likely.

No. She’d survived. She’d survived and she was in the West and she was alive against all odds. She’d made it. Nothing that the Soviets could throw at her could tear her down and she made it. Now all she had to do was find Marta. That’s all. Then she could finally rest.

“Marta!! Does anyone know a woman named Marta Kaiser, please! I need to find her I need to find my sister!” Anya shouted again, before doubling over and coughing into her handkerchief again. It was no use, her voice was drowned out by the rest of the crowd’s screams. Other people rejoicing as they found their families again, friends reunited after decades apart, people screaming just because they were free to scream. She would never be heard over the shouts of the rest of the people.

But she kept trying. She kept screaming her sister’s name, over and over again until her voice was gone and tears streaked down her face. And even then she kept screaming, calling out to her sister who she didn’t even know if she was still alive.

It was useless. Nobody could tell her screams apart from the screams of everyone else. It felt like the crowd was pressing in around her, the clusters of people filling the streets until every square meter was packed to the brim with hysterical, screaming people. There were too many, too many.

Anya hugged her arms tight to her chest, trembling as she hunched over, tears spilling over her pale cheeks as she sobbed. Where, where was Marta? Her entire body shook violently as she struggled to stay standing in the road, choking through her tears and struggling to catch her breath.

“I just want to see my little sister again, please,” she cried to herself, voice barely a whisper with pain from shouting for so long. “I just want to see her one more time before I die. Please God.. let me find her.”

Slowly, Anya pushed her way out of the middle of the crowds and collapsed onto the sidewalk, leaning back against a building. She was exhausted and her chest ached, and with every cough it brought a new wave of pain through her head and body. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t keep searching and screaming. She was too tired. She needed to go home and rest but she refused to go back into the East until she found her sister. She’d rather die out in the cold on the ground than go back and get her medicine without seeing Marta again. The world was spinning around her as she rested her head on her knees. Laborious breaths rocked her shoulders back and forth as she fought to breathe, fought against the swell of emotions in her chest that threatened to choke her and drown her.

There were too many people. Too much noise. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. It felt like a weight was pushing on her chest and shoulders, crushing her, pushing her into the ground. Where was her sister? Why couldn’t she find Marta? The screaming, there were too many people screaming. Too much noise. Too much.

“ANYA!”

Anya shot her head up almost instantly, eyes wide like a deer’s in headlights. She pushed herself up against the wall of the building she rested against and looked around. Someone, someone was calling her name.

Don’t be stupid, the voice in her head hissed at her, the thoughts dripping with poison. It’s a common German name. It’s not for you. Give up. Marta isn’t coming. She’s gone.

“Anya Kaiser! Anya!!”

That was her name. Someone was looking for her. Someone wanted to find her. Marta.

A tall blonde woman stood in the middle of the crowd, with their father’s shining eyes set into her face with a tiredness and fear that made Anya’s heart ache violently. She was so much taller now, towering over her sister’s short height. Good food in the West treated her well. She kept shouting her name, panic building in her voice as she looked for her sister.

Marta was here. She was alive.

“M-Marta!” Anya shouted back, pushing off the building and shoving her way through the crowd. She ran as fast as she could, her leg screaming in agony at every hurried step. She didn’t stop, not until she grabbed her sister’s arm and almost collapsed onto the ground at her feet.

“Marta! It’s me,” she stammered, regaining her balance and grabbing Marta’s other arm with her opposite hand.

“O-Oh my God,” Marta stammered, putting her hands on Anya’s shoulders, eyes filling with tears at the sight of her sister. “It’s you. Anya. You’re- You’re alive. Oh my God Anya!”

The two sisters embraced each other tightly, shivering in the cold air. Anya barely came up past her sister’s shoulder now, she used to be so small but Marta had grown. That wasn’t important though, not really. What was important was that her sister was here, she was alive and healthy and standing right in front of her.

“I missed you so much, it’s been so long I-” Marta started, but Anya shushed her, holding her sister at arms’ length.

“No. Don’t talk about that right now,” she said, her voice scratchy and almost too quiet to hear. “That’s the past, that’s done it’s gone. I’m here now, right now. Even though I wasn’t then.”

“When did you get so smart?” Marta laughed, tears staining her cheeks. “You’re right, I don’t want to think about… that.. I just want to talk to you now. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Marta,” Anya whispered, pulling her sister into a hug again. “I’m so happy to see you again.”

Both women were crying, holding one another close. No matter how much time had passed they were still sisters, still family. Nothing could ever change that.

Anya pulled back and wiped her eyes, smiling through her tears. She looked around and smiled ever brighter, even laughing while tears streamed down her face and she coughed into her arm.

“I’m home. I’m finally home.”

Face to face,

face up,

staring at

the ceiling,

trying to

face down

my demons.

Fight off the

drowsiness

threatening

to drag me

into sleep.

Welcome in

insomnia

because it's

the only way

to keep out

the dreams.

Flightless

bird, run away,

but what to

do if you can't

fly?

Fly away from

the fight.

Far away from

the fight.

I just want

to run from

the pain.

But pain is

faster than

my footsteps.

Should I

fight the pain

or should I

run away?

It's a decision

I can't make.

Fight or flight?

The reflex

won't allow me

to survive the

choice.

Choices, choices.

Am I angry or

is it just fear?

The instant

decision, but

I can't make

it instantly

like I'm

supposed to.

I look into his

eyes, and see his

betrayal, but

should I run now

or should I fight?

Should I fight

to have this

relationship?

Or should I run

before the fire

eats me alive?

There's no good

answer, cause

if I leave, then

he leaves too.

If I stay, I die.

Which one is

the lesser of

two evils?

In your 

cinematographic

middle

new age

eye

do 

you

witness

us

standing

by 

and large

at the window

sill

where all emotion

comes spilling 

in

reaching

far forward

with outstretched

fingerlings 

to 

draw

the curtains

back

and circumvent

a laugh or lash

that’s pausing

at the glass

just

at the edge

of our contacts 

pan left then

right

to handle

the panorama

of our

ups 

and downs

at 

the turn

of the sentry...

where all these worldly

incarnations 

of 

Self

stand

#EmotionalReaction #challenge