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Intermediate. Years 7/8/9

The Hospice

By Jacques Tautscher, year 8, Elizabeth College

Gingerly, the hot soup was trickled down my throat. I swallowed reluctantly remembering the ash which clung to my throat. As the soft cushions swallowed my feeble body, I tried to open my eyes. No use.
“How are you feeling?” A soft voice drowned out the tension and panic building in the hall. My mouth exploded with a thousand silent words explaining what had happened. No use. It is like my body is just lying collecting dust, no purpose nor point
Countless hours later, my eyes crawled open, light flooded into my dark world. The loud hubbub and panic seemed more amplified now I could see.
A searing pain clouded my brain, I shouted. All the emotions which were once bottled now released in a frenzy of shouting and anger.
They weren’t like the others, they didn’t rush to me to chain me down and smash my ribs in so I didn’t scream. No. They embraced me softly, almost like my, no, she left me for dead.
Her maternal eyes filled me with a sense of hope, her red cross on her shirt radiating her sacrifice she made.
Hours passed but she stood loyal to my side making sure all was well. But it wasn’t. My vision had been deteriorating rapidly, but I didn’t want to worry her.
It was only later when I got it, she was my mother. I can now see clearly, her touch ignites memories of her before the bombs started. I clutch her tightly as I may never get this chance again.
Then it happened, the whole hall shook violently, yellow gas seeps in from the fractured glass. People struggle vigorously to escape the poison, there is no point, no chance. I sit quietly awaiting fate with a smile.



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