Oblivion

I sit on the dusty, cracked steps of an old building. I hold in my grimy hands a bag of broken cookies—the artificial-flavored kind that taste more like medicine than real food. My mouth waters at the thought; I've eaten only a slice of bread since morning and already the sun is creeping behind the skyscrapers.

It's been long since I stopped imagining what life was like before the war. Before they entered the streets with their guns and destruction, with their death and pain, with their hell of shouts and anger and shots and blood.

They are gone now. Probably will never return. But what they left behind is not freedom nor peace. We run the streets like rats, and in the same way, we scavenge for food and a place to sleep.

I'm weak. From hunger and sleep deprivation. I can't open the cookies for the life of me! Using my teeth, I fianlly rip through the plastic. Strawberry crumbs explode in my mouth, but before I can empty the contents and munch them down, a hand snatches the bag away.

I jump to my feet at once, ready to fight for my food. Someone from behind slams me to the ground.

Three boys run as if death itself was chasing them.

"Tough luck, boy!" One of them calls out my way.

"It's a girl, you fool." Another corrects his companion.

They disappear around the corner, their footsteps a distant echo. I pick myself up from the ground and brush my short hair from my eyes. My back aches and I blame the pain for the tears that smear warmth down my face.