Is Black A Colour?

         Based On Real Events & The Latest Accounts Of The Hiroshima Bomb Survivors 

It’s August 6th, 1945. In Hiroshima, the morning unfolds with deceptive tranquility. I am Eriko, fifteen years old, weaving through this ordinary day with a mix of youthful resolve and an aching dread I work hard to suppress. My long black hair falls in two haphazard braids, a childhood habit I somehow cling to. I wear a faded pastel kimono, once adorned with vibrant cherry blossom patterns, now ghostly outlines of what they used to be. But such details are trivial when I hear Akari’s voice—my baby sister, only eighteen months old—calling for me in her garbled, sing-song way. Her chubby little hands reach out clumsily to grasp the hem of my kimono, seeking my attention.

“Stay still, Akari,” I murmur, struggling to wrap her in the light yukata my mother meticulously sewed before the war changed everything. Akari wriggles and giggles, her laugh high-pitched and full of innocence. “Ticklish!” she protests in her baby voice before her laughter erupts again. Her playful defiance brings a fleeting smile to my lips. For a moment, I let myself believe our home is a shield from the chaos of the wider world. In this tiny sanctuary, life feels bearable.

Once I’ve finally tied the obi around her pudgy waist, I kneel beside her, offering her a clay cup of water. “Drink, my little peach,” I urge. But Akari scrunches her nose and swats at the cup, letting out a petulant, “No!” I am on the verge of exasperation but soften instantly at her stubborn expression. Using a wooden spoon, I coax a small sip to her lips, which she accepts hesitantly, her wide brown eyes watching me with suspicion. “Good girl,” I whisper as I stroke her soft, dark hair. Her trust is my anchor, my reason to keep going.

With Mother working tirelessly as a nurse and Father stationed far away with the army, I’ve become Akari’s mother, sister, and protector all in one. Today, like most days, I prepare to take her to the market, though supplies have dwindled as the war stretches on. The frayed hem of my kimono brushes my ankles as I walk. I sense the eyes of others on me—on us—but all I care about is keeping Akari at my side, her small hand gripping my sleeve as she babbles incoherently. The sunlight feels warmer than usual, but the specter of war is a shadow I cannot shake.

At 7:10 a.m., the familiar wail of air raid sirens slices through the sky. I clutch Akari's hand tightly, though neither of us flinch anymore. The B-29 bomber flights have become mundane, and ordinary. I offer her a reassuring smile, even as my eyes search the sky. “It’s just another drill,” I tell her, more to convince myself than her. Then, at 8:15 a.m., the world irrevocably changes.

A searing flash of light ignites the sky, more brilliant than the sun. It freezes everything. And then, in the blink of an eye, comes the roar—a soundless fury that consumes sight, thought, and air. The earthquakes beneath us; the heat is unbearable. I barely have time to shield Akari as an invisible wave hurls us to the ground. Everything collapses into chaos.

When I regain consciousness, the vibrant city I knew is unrecognizable. The air is thick with ash, smoke, and an acrid stench that claws at my throat. I force myself upright, trembling, and clutch Akari to my chest. Her small body shudders against mine. Around us, the world is stripped bare, monochrome with destruction. The sky—once blue and alive—is a churning mass of charcoal clouds.

People stagger through the devastation, their faces vacant and uncomprehending. A woman I scarcely recognize limps by, her sleek black hair now matted with blood and soot. "Mizu! Water!" hoarse voices beg all around us. Among the lifeless rubble stands Natsuko-san, once the warm, smiling proprietor of the sweet shop. Now, she grips a charred lump of fabric, wailing for her infant daughter. Nearby, I spot Haruto-san, a fisherman from the market, dragging his shattered body forward, skin hanging from his arms in grotesque ribbons.

Through the haze, I recognize Aiko, a schoolmate who used to boast the most beautiful flower braids. The flowers are gone, replaced by jagged burns and seared hair. Her face is swollen almost beyond recognition, yet her hollow eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment. It’s as if the soul of the city has crumbled, leaving ghosts to wander in agony. Akari groans softly, pulling my focus back to her trembling form. Her cheek, once round and rosy, is now blistered and raw.

Mother’s instructions echo in my mind: "Protect burns from dirt and smoke." Tearing a strip from my ragged sleeve, I wrap it over Akari’s wounds as gently as I can. “Shh, you’re okay,” I whisper, though my voice wavers as much as my resolve. Around us, survivors murmur fractured theories. Some insist it was a gas attack, others, a new kind of weapon. No one truly knows. How could we?

The Miyuki Bridge becomes both a refuge and a graveyard. I stagger there with Akari in my arms, marveling at the scale of the devastation. The river beneath the bridge carries charred bodies and fragments of lives now extinguished. Survivors huddle together, sharing makeshift remedies out of desperation. A man—Daiki-san—offers rapeseed oil for Akari’s burns, his hands trembling as he gently dabs it onto her skin. The futility of his effort does nothing to diminish the kindness in his gesture. “Arigatou,” I whisper, unable to muster more.

A photographer I know of—Kouta Matsuda—stands nearby, his camera trembling in his hands as he surveys the horror before him. My initial anger at his presence melts away when I see his face, etched with sorrow. His every movement seems burdened by the weight of responsibility. This moment, I realize, is not a violation—it is a testament.

Suddenly, the skies opened, unleashing a rain unlike anything we had ever seen. Heavy droplets fell to the earth with a sinister slowness, not crystalline and cleansing like ordinary rain, but dark as ink. The black water spattered onto the ruins, painting the rubble and ash-strewn ground in streaks of tarry sludge.

On the bridge, survivors lift their faces to the downpour, their cracked lips parting in desperation for relief. Many stretch out trembling hands, palms upward to catch the viscous rain. Some bring it to their mouths instinctively, driven by an unbearable thirst that overpowered caution. The water clings to their skin in thick, oily rivulets, its consistency unnaturally sticky, like syrup turned toxic.

An acrid, metallic stench rises with the rain, clawing at my nose and wringing bile from my stomach. The black liquid pools around us, seeping into cracks in the bridge and mingling with the blood and ash already staining the earth.

Akari grows quieter in my arms. Her cries become soft whimpers, her energy fading with each relentless second. Panic surges through me like wildfire. “No, no, no—you’re okay!” I plead, rocking her, my voice trembling with each word. Her tiny fingers grasp weakly at my braid, a gesture so familiar yet now achingly delicate. Tears cascade down my cheeks as I press my forehead to hers. “Stay with me, Akari. Please don’t leave me.”

I stumble toward Miyuki Bridge, desperate for answers, for help—for hope. The river is an apocalyptic vision, filled with charred remains and human desperation. Survivors cluster together, sharing crude remedies with trembling hands. An elderly man offers a small tin of salve for Akari’s burns, his eyes glistening with helpless sympathy. I thank him through broken sobs, applying the salve with shaking fingers. But her breathing continues to weaken, each shallow inhale a dagger to my heart.

I am consumed by despair, whispering frantic pleas to a god I can no longer trust. "She’s just a baby," I cry out into the smoke-choked void. "She’s my baby!" Around us, the world crumbles away, indifferent to my agony. But I can feel her fading. Her tiny breaths grow more shallow until they stop altogether. "No!" I howl, clutching her lifeless form to my chest. "No, no, no!" My screams slice through the night, raw and unrelenting. My tears flow over her still face, mingling with the dark rain.

For hours, I hold her close, grappling with the haunting truth of our situation. I whisper to her as if she can still hear my voice, sharing our cherished lullabies and the joyful games that once filled the air with her laughter. My heart shatters under the crushing burden of this sorrow.

When dawn breaks, stark and unforgiving, soldiers approach with sharp commands and chilling efficiency. They pry Akari’s lifeless form from my arms, but I fight back, howling in profound despair. It is Ryo-san, a trusted family friend, who finally restrains me. His tone is resolute, yet heavy with grief. “Eriko, she’s gone. You must let her go.”

“I can’t,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. But I let her go, gently laying her on the bridge, with the frayed edges of my scarf enveloping her fragile form. I linger a moment longer, pressing a final kiss to her forehead, hoping that my love will be imprinted in her heart forever.

Each August, I return to Miyuki Bridge, clutching a weathered photograph of Akari. At 8:15 a.m., I close my eyes and envelop myself in the flash, the warmth, the stillness. To anyone willing to listen, I recount our story. "Remember us," I whisper. "Remember her." And in my dreams, she appears—laughing, playing, vibrant once more. She beams at me, and for a fleeting moment, I convince myself I’ve found solace. Then I awaken, and the shadows of reality seep back in, bringing with them the same unresolved question: Is black a color? Or is it the absence of every other color?