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Intermediate. Years 7/8/9


By Michael Kennedy, year 9, Elizabeth College

A shallow noise echoed through the darkness. The whistle headed closer towards our house, giving no signs of stopping. She told me this would happen, but I didn’t listen. “Get away from the window, Now!” I hear her repeat it every day, forcing guilt to substitute any of the tranquil emotions I still have left. I looked back from the window to see her standing unsteadily with eyes screaming only the word, run. She thought it would be prudent for me to learn to hide in our bomb shelter out back and avert the dangers from up above, however I saw no use for it. She hollered “We need to get out right now or there’ll be nothing left of this god forsaken place.” I didn’t listen and sprinted upstairs to collect any valuables that I owned to take with me to the shelter. With my father out at war, fighting off the Germans, my last picture with him was the most desired object I own. I hurried back the living room where she waited and headed out for the back door, but in my haste I dropped the photo. I cried out for it in a panic, as me being 4 feet away from it was like losing a friend. She told me to keep running to the shelter. Incidentally as I exited our house, I was flung three meters away and a loud crash followed. The house was being been bombed, with my mother still inside. I tried to get up but my incapacitated body kept pulling me down. The inferno expended our house into rubble and my mother nowhere to be seen. I should have left the photo, and that split second would have saved her. But I can't undo this. I can never forgive myself.

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