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Intermediate. Years 7/8/9

The Men

By Rollo Tiffin, year 9, Elizabeth College

He didn't understand. He knew where and what and how, but not why. The men came. Then left. And he didn't understand. It was a peculiar thing what the men were doing, but he knew what the men were doing. The men were killing. He had witnessed what the men were doing first hand but when he saw, he didn't scream, he didn't shout, he just stared, puzzled, and thought, why? But just because he couldn't fathom why didn't mean it was time for fathoming. He knew he should be screaming as the men marched past him, as the rubble buried things around him, as the sirens wailed next to him. But he was only thinking.

It was funny, he thought, he couldn't think of their faces. Even when looking at their corpses, he couldn't think of what they looked like before the men's time. The men had only been here for a couple of minutes and yet, he couldn't remember the time when the men weren't there. He looked down again at his mother and father’s faces. He couldn't remember them before the men. He knew mother was crying a minute ago but now she was motionless, expressionless.

He looked around himself. He couldn't imagine the home before the men. This was his home now. The rubble. The death. The men. He couldn't see very well before realising that he was crying. That's odd, he pondered, he wasn't sad, although he knew he should be, and yet he was still crying. A new question arose into his mind, why was he crying? He looked down at what he once called parents and felt nothing. Then he looked at The Men. They were walking past with pride, not bothering to think why. And then something clicked in his mind. Rage.

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