Dear readers; I must warn you, this story has no relation to fiction.

Any resemblance to other stories is cause for sadness and sorrow.

Scene One: “A Royal Day”

Here, the morning begins, nothing new in it.

My rosy room, adorned with the dust of games played by those older than me with fireworks all night long.

I hear the chirping of birds, I close my eyes tightly, knowing they are preparing my clothes.

I am their princess, and they are my handmaidens.

My mother enters the room to wake me, thinking I am unaware that my birds have awakened her and asked for her assistance.

She approaches me, kisses my forehead, saying: “Come on, my princess, let’s go to the kindergarten.”

I smile, knowing that the royal day has begun.

I sit to have my breakfast, the royal thyme sandwich, with half an apple, the dark part cut off, without her noticing, I sneaked behind her and stole that part, for I love dark, dim things that resemble my father’s eyes.

After finishing the preparations, my mother stands, sternly warning the birds: “We’re heading to school, we might come back, we might not.”

I understand that she is ordering them to finish my royal lunch.

She carries me like a princess, hiding my face with her hands so that the wicked witches won’t recognize me.

As the fireworks start, rejoicing in my going to school, my mother starts running.

I feel her heart pounding, I hear her mind screaming, the royalty of the outing dissipates.

My limbs shrink, my tears begin to fall, the fireworks’ lights shimmer more and more.

And suddenly; I see colors again. “We’ve arrived” my mother says.

She kisses me and whispers in my ear, “Stay well, my princess,” then places me on the ground.

Amidst the crying and screaming of my peers, I enter, crawling on the red carpet, reaching my brown throne, and the bell rings.

Scene Two: “The Magical Blanket”

Coughing, thick fog, dust fills the air; what is happening?

I feel myself soaring, where am I?

Gradually, my vision clears, and I find myself between my mother’s hands. We sit by the door of our house, and I look around, wondering why everything is trying to escape

Windows and doors cry out for help.

My sister and I sit on the ground, clinging to our mother’s sides, and comprehension is still absent. 

I glance around again, feeling that something is missing. I shout; “Foufou!” searching for my toy with the big feet, just like my grandfather’s. But I don’t find it near me. I shout again; “Foufou! my magical blanket!” My father looks into my eyes and crawls away, only to return after a few minutes, bringing Foufou and my blanket. Joy overwhelms me as I wrap myself and my sister in the blanket. It is our shield, our guardian angel, as my grandmother says.

Suddenly, my mother tenses up. A nearby sound startles her, and she covers her ears with her fingers. She lovingly instructs us; “Cover your ears and say ‘aaaah’ loudly.” After a few seconds, with a wide smile hinting at our success in the game, she assures us. My sister asks with fear, “Mommy, what’s that sound? It’s scaring me.” My mother leans closer, placing her head between ours, and whispers: “Our new neighbor’s name is (Shell), and she wants to play a new game called (Survival).” My father interrupts; “Why are you using these words? Shame on you! Talking like that in front of the children.” My mother looks at him, tears streaming down her face, and says firmly; “I promised myself from the moment I knew I would become a mother, to tell my daughters nothing but the truth.”

I gazed into my mother’s eyes, feeling her determination. She wanted me to win. I saw that challenge in her eyes, and with the help of Foufou and my magical blanket, I decided I would survive. Without any prior warning, that sound returns once again. I grab Foufou’s feet and cover my ears with them, opening my mouth wide enough for my tonsils to show.

Today, we will not die. Today, we will survive.

Scene Three: “The Blindfold”

I enter the house, laden with bags of vegetables. My wife approaches, quickly glancing at our neighbor, thanking him and inviting him for lunch. She closes the door and joins me, her voice trembling; “Did something happen on the way? Our neighbor looks pale as a lemon.” I deny it and interrupt her by asking how long the food will take to be ready. She falls silent, retreating quietly, and I remain alone. I lift my head and look towards the ceiling, hearing the sounds of my children from inside, the clock ticking; my heart tightens, and I feel as if a mountain has been put on my chest. There is no stronger expression to describe it.

Is it true what I heard?

Have I deceived myself by imagining the scene? Or is it the reality that I’m deceiving?

I relive the moment over and over again.

My neighbor grabs my arm, pleading for me to return.

Is it my desire to show my bravery by completing the journey?

Or is it my reluctance to return home empty-handed?

My neighbor’s words repeat in my head once again; “There are many dead bodies lying ahead, let’s go back.” I ask him if the stores are closed, and I continue my walk. After several meters, I feel it, the angel of death standing on my shoulders, proudly admiring his artistic masterpiece. I smell it, the scent of blood.

My neighbor approaches me, pushing me to continue the journey in complete silence. We fetch our food and return. Upon our return, I ask him, “Why did we continue the journey?” I feel his eyes gazing into mine as he says; “If we don’t die from a bullet, we’ll die of hunger.” He places his hand on my head and adds, “Sometimes, it seems like blindness is a blessing, my dear neighbor.” He bids me farewell and departs. His words mess with my mind; it seems like it’s the time to leave. I stand and touch the walls, the doors and windows. I must inform my wife of my decision; the contract signed with time in this place has ended. No more memories to be born here.

We have one final meal, and we depart in a car carrying the dead, to be reborn with an astray memory and a great longing.

Scene Four: “The Kiss”

The air dances with my hair, my neck breathes, and the sun rays caress my face, leaving a kiss, pure air with no dust or gunpowder. I cry, wanting to jump around, wondering if this suits my age.

My hands embrace my husband’s hand; I kneel down and kiss my children, whispering to them all the words of love I know. Inhale… exhale, I feel alive again.

We enter a new house, its windows open, its sheets clean. We have our first meal, sitting by the window; an old friend of mine. No fear. I sit and, for the first time in a while, I see my dreams even before sleep.

These are the initial thoughts that crossed my mind when I learned that I would leave my home, the coffin was specially made for those who seek life, for those who live and feed on… darkness, for those who sleep because they are escaping, not because they are tired.

I look at my husband and ask; “What do you think if we phone our old house?” Quietly, he agrees. I type the digits and wait. I did not realize how secure I would feel when no one answered, but then someone did! The security evaporated with a cold breeze of few words, “Don’t worry, sister, we just disconnected the line. Your house is safe.” I trembled, extreme panic, someone invaded my world.

Someone watches my memories, eats at my table, and drinks from my cup. Someone gave themselves the right to call me their sister and to answer my calls. I did not know that what I have called a coffin was the same golden cage where I wish I would die in.

I will return. I will take my clothes and belongings, my photo album. I will steal my favorite cup and book. They are mine, they are me.

I return, I put my key in the lock, but it does not open. A stranger comes out to explain, saying; “Take your key from upstairs.” Silence. I go up and, with all politeness, knock on the door. A man resembling Gargamel from my childhood stories opens it, giving me the key and adding, “Don’t take too long, a quick visit, then return the key.” I enter, as a guest, welcomed into my own home. I greet its inhabitants and kiss its windows and walls. What shall I take?

I put Foufou, my daughter’s magical blanket, in my bag, along with her storybook. I place a vase, which was a gift from my husband, who never saw its bright colors.

I return the key to its owner, entrusting my home to its residents, and I step out.

On the way back, I pluck a rose and place it in a vase overflowing with my tears, burying a life. Then I remain here, observing a life span that does not delay, a life on its way to nonexistence.