Hibakusha

It starts with a deafening noise, one beyond the scope of possibilities. Before too long, a brilliance of which none can fathom its origins will follow.

The sound is birthed as a crackle: First a soft pop, then it waves as dissonant cadences. It evolves from a slow rumble at an increasing velocity. It grows into a devastating quake of earsplitting madness. The erupting blast detonates like thunder coupled with a seism, and it is heard across the nation. The noise becomes a blink in time, shared by each whose eyes cannot be drawn but skyward.

   A piece from the above has been ripped and launched at the unsuspecting entities meandering below. It has fallen like a seed into the dirt, ready to sprout its toxic roots of slaughter.

   Time transforms. It is obsolete.

The horizon falters, its subtle line separating earth and sky blurred by floundering purples and violets. They form kaleidoscopic beauties, spinning the world upside down and inside out. The limits between all directions are annihilated, morphing the sky from a celestial blue to a hypnotizing crimson.

Most will think it is the sunrise, eager to wake. Some will recall shortly after that the sun has already crept up from behind the skyline as the world settles into a late morning.

All shadows vanish at once.

Whiteness unequaled by the sun illuminates the heavens. In fact, it is as if all the burning stars of the galaxy have combined into one coruscating entity, displaying a blinding halo that soon engulfs the nation in its bosom. The gleam submerges the entirety of all that is.

   Then, come the clouds.

They do not reveal themselves from above, as they usually do when rocked by the current of the wind on a summer day. Rather, they emerge from the ground, dark and ominous. They bring the dry smell of coal and the tingling scent of heat.

The clouds ascend; they levitate of their own will until they merge into the atrocity that towers above all. From its skeletal fumes, it rises like a titan, crowned of a voluptuous helm of smoke circled by a ring of smog. Without need for reason, without need for anger, it is bent on destroying all that might extend at its foot.

   Gravity fails to keep its grip upon the world. It yields as a single hair does under the weight of a boulder, lifting thousands into the atmosphere. Gravity disappears altogether, bringing with it all sense of consciousness as the atrocity blasts a tide of tumultuous tremors. All begin to float, hovering eternally. This eternity does not last. They are sucked in by solid flames, but their fate is not yet decided.

   Nested in the sinister clouds is the blaze. It implodes into a stentorian geyser of fire, bridging earth and sky with colors of gold and blood. The blaze cries tears of boiling lava unto the nation, its treacherous teardrops heading towards the feeble life strewn across the mainland.

Amid the clangor, a threatening wailing resounds. The lament undulates like flying whips. It is the only hint to the life scurrying about that something has gone terribly wrong. The macabre squeal ripples through the air in a promise of death. It slides into high-pitched crescendos, followed by a flat fall into quiet, only to begin again. And again. And again.

The blaze now faded, terror replaces shock.

   Total darkness ensues.

The darkness can only be rivaled by the silence. It dethrones any hint of brightness left within the world. Noon not yet arrived, the skies are covered by the veils of a moonless night. Not even boastful stars can be seen in the billowing silks of the firmament. It is the eclipse of all suns, no luminary from which to mold it but there all the same.

   It is only dark. It is only silent.

   The stillness shrouds the plains of dust that broke into existence. Its eeriness overflows the kingdom of the living.

Sinister shapes stand erect in the quiet. At first motionless, they begin to roam across the soot coating the floor, dragging toeless feet through the searing soil. They cannot take bodily forms: They can only hold themselves together, hanging on to their melting skin like scarfs in the howling wind, or leaning their eyes and nose and mouth into their palms so their features won’t scarper away and leave them faceless.

With nowhere to go, ghosts and spirits wander out of the light into the obscurity, searching for an aid they will not receive. Their hoarse and faint voices are whispers heard by no one, burnt to ashes owing to the fires brought upon them by demons, gliding over their misshapen selves.

Under the debris of a fallen mountain, made of gray stones and shattered glass, the Being opens its eyes with lids that have not yet been taken from it.

It opens its eyes to nothing. It is complete void that the Being stares into.

Yet, other than the clamorous white-noise flooding the inside of its skull with abominable drumming, its ears capture a sound. Echoes of helplessness linger behind the specters that drift in the blackness. Their calls are like surging smoke born from blistering embers, suffocating.

The echoes beg for water that should oil their throats. They plead for coolness that might soothe their burns. They implore mercy of a danger that already looms in the past.

The present devours them into an oblivious future.

The Being resigns, ready to go into the light once again. There is no use staying in this darkness. It brings only silent shrieks of suffering, and impossible dreams of salvation. It is the end, surely of life, but also pain.

Under the rubble, the Being will not be found. Unmoving, it will wither beneath the layers of ash raining from radiated clouds. Under the waste, its body will decay into an illness so putrid that anyone stepping upon its grave will succumb to its foulness.

One last breath, barely so.

The Being exhales a last puff from her perforated lungs, emptying herself from what is left of her soul. Her last thought is of the confusing silence that still lingers where screams of anguish were expected.

No, it is deadly quiet.

Satoshi Yurika of Hiroshima does not close her eyes when she dies.