Flee

By the time he had left the factory, the sun had just about fallen behind the ragged city skyline. Burnt buildings, collapsed roofs, two or three storey blocks fallen onto their sides, with bricks and chunks of stone spilling onto the earth, made mounds and hills where there had been flat land.

If anyone braved them, perhaps they could see the entirety of the city from where they stood. People would often crowd around them for days, crying and screaming as they lifted rock and tossed loose stone. Amar shook his head, it was a terrible business, to stay and search. Often, they found things they hoped to not see. And yet they would still crowd around them like ants, did the first ten buildings not dampen their spirits?

He’d stopped looking at them. Especially as he left work; The sun at this time would stream between the holes and cracks, like a trickle of water. It would splash against lone tufts of flowers, thickets of grass and bush that had grown loose from their hedged gardens. In the twilight, their petals and leaves became crystal; Their hundred different faces would shimmer and glow in their dark alcoves, and for a brief moment, in the minute before the sun truly set, they would become torches. Their stems and branches would become handles brandishing the bulbs that roared blue, yellow, red and green during the darkness. They would blare like steel being tempered, glowing bright dyes and hues.

At first, he picked one or two, for Jasmine and his daughters. Now it sufficed to gaze upon them as he walked, there were too few left. He smiled as he breathed in the twilight air. It wasn’t fresh, as much as he wanted to call it that, dust and soot clung to it like sweat to skin. The factory air was putrid though, sulphur and other chemicals swarmed around like flies in the summertime. The constant burning made gases that crowded with them in the small mill; They stood side by side, sending two fingers up his nostrils as the work would go on. After a while though, you got used to it, Amar did.

He smiled on the walk back, shutting his eyes as the last tendrils of the sun baked his skin in the low glow. His sweater had grown very loose across his torso, it hung off to one side and let the air and chill hug his body. And though it wasn’t in tatters like his pants, it only had a few holes, it was still nice to bask in the sun from time to time, that was a right every man held, even if he only enjoyed it on occasion.

As he walked on, the cracked road he had traversed thinned to a dirt track that winded between a neighbourhood of small, single storied, buildings. Only a few of these were truly destroyed, with the rest crumbling and abandoned; Panels of wood were planked across the windows and doors, the porches were littered with shattered glass. Not his house though.

His house stood proud. He saw it as he turned the corner, its red door always popped out from between the brown and grey. His great-grandfather had painted it himself, back when they had first moved. Faint gasps of light poured from the plastic that covered their shattered windows; He smiled as he pushed open the door, jasmine always remembered to turn on the lamps, not wasting too much, but still letting light into the house.

“I’m home,” he called out, stepping inside. A small lamp flickered atop the cedar table his grandfather had carved, casting shadows across the small lounge room. A wood and jute rope couch backed against the left wall, between the doors of the two bedrooms. His wife stood in one corner, in their kitchen, she didn’t turn, only standing there with her hands upon the grey-black counter. “Jasmine?” he called, pushing the door closed as he walked over to her, pulling her into his arms.

His wife lulled into his embrace, only realising him when she looked onto his face. Her eyes were red, the skin beneath them had turned purple, new wrinkles creased across her brow and sweat glistened all over her body. “My husband,” she squeaked, giving him a faint smile, “you’ve come home.”

His smile widened as the initial worry fell to the side. He pulled her close, kissing her on the brow before turning to sit down against the couch, it creaked as he sat. “Work was funny today my darling, one of the boys thought he’d show up late, so the manager, not the senior one, the juni—”

“My love,” his wife looked down as her hands fidgeted with one another. “Have you thought about it? What we talked about before?”

He shook his head, gritting his teeth, “the camp?”

“Yes.”

“We’re not going, we are fine where we are.” She nodded, turning her back to him as she made her way to the kitchen. Her shoulders quivered, or shuddered, he couldn’t tell, it was the rustle of her shirt he reasoned to himself.

“Have you given him his tea?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she answered in a frail voice. “Pouring it now,” she said as the familiar gush of boiling water sounded in the room. She poured into the white tea pot, the one his grandmother had painted with flowering blue bell’s, the porcelain one he had drunk from when he was a kid, the same one his father had drunk from as well.

He smiled as she placed it onto a wooden tray, along with two cups, carrying it with her into the room beside the front door. Amar followed, creeping into the tiny room right as his wife placed the tray onto the bedside table.

A groan escaped the blanketed mass piled atop the singular bed. His father, covered in sheets, turned, slowly, and painfully, as Jasmine poured the tea. Amar’s heart clutched in his throat, it always did at the sight of his father, the man who had been taller and stronger than him his whole life, now shivering and frail, bedridden.

“Father,” he whispered as he took the man’s hand. It was skeletal, a bundling of bones wrapped beneath wrinkled and swollen skin. The man didn’t answer, “father?” he asked in a frantic voice. A second passed, two, three, before… Amar sighed, he felt the light squeeze. He breathed hard before falling to the bedside, turning and leaning against the frame as he took a cup of tea in one hand and continued to squeeze in the other.

His grip had gotten weaker, at first he didn’t notice, five months ago when father had fallen ill it seemed his grip was the same every day, frail. Now though, as the days wore on, and as time passed, the sickness was apparent.

Sighing, he placed the teacup down after he brought it to his lips. Jasmine sat by his father’s bed, cooling it and then helping him to drink. There was nothing better than to drink tea with your own father, Amar concluded. Especially in one’s own home, the place where both of you had been raised.

He smiled as he felt the thin jute rug beneath his hands. He remembered the days when he and his brothers would play marbles along the same floor, aiming and then striking his brothers marbles out of their shoelace circle as their elders sipped black tea and talked of all that was wrong with the world. He had always found that so futile. To sit and talk of impending doom. Why not play and forget, if doom was to come, let it come. It was better to play and enjoy the moments before disaster than sit and tear your hair from the wait.

There was no need to talk. All they needed to do was enjoy their tea.

“My darling...” he sighed at the sound of his wife’s voice. “He needs medicine.”

He shook his head, rocking back before taking a sip from his cup. “What he needs,” he muttered, “is to rest, and enjoy the sun, and some tea, and maybe some time with his son and his grandchildren. Don’t talk to him of medicine, what he needs is stories, he needs to feel again, to taste life.”

“You know father, one of the boys I work with, the one with red hair, yes, I’ve told you about him. Well, he was working, sending steel through the roller, and just as the steel came back through, he slipped in the water one of drenchers threw on us. Just as he fell onto his butt, the tempered rod cracked in the machine, bending, it went straight for where he stood. Missed him though. We all watched for a moment, before we cracked into laughter,” Amar chuckled as he thought back, “God saved him for sure. We call the drencher his saviour now, otherwise he’d have steel sticking through his belly.” He laughed, letting his voice rumble and echo through the room as he gripped the cup for warmth.

Smiling, he took another sip from the tea. Its calm surface rippled as he did so; it was odd, quiet. Soon the ripple turned to tremors, and they went through to his hand and arms which began to shake. Hot tea spilled all over his flesh, he cried as he set the cup down. Behind him the bed frame rattled, his father groaned as Jasmine shrieked. Books fell off the shelf to the side as the walls shuddered and the bedside table staggered.

The tray clattered, inching off the side, Amar lunged forward. His elbow scraped against the bedside table just as the tray began to tip. Belly down, he lay there, sighing, screwing his eyes shut as he prayed the tremor would end. It did, lasting only a few seconds.

He heard his wife’s sigh as the rumble subsided. She picked herself off the bed, checking on father before moving to arrange the contents of the room. Amar breathed hard, shaking his head before he slowly got up, sliding the tray back over the tabletop. “The blast was close… far too close,” his wife murmured.

Amar turned around, she was absently pushing books back on the shelf, her fingers trembled. “Not a blast,” he snapped, “don’t say things like that, not in front of him.” He squeezed his father’s hand, “it was an earth tremor.”

Jasmine turned, letting the last book in her hand fall. Her eyes glistened with a thin film of water, her lips quivered, as she breathed wisps of dust. “Amar,” her voice had gone light, almost inaudible. “Come with me.” She rushed, pushing past the door, letting It fall and clatter against its frame.

“Wait!” Father shook, startled by the sound. Amar picked up the cups, placing them on the tray she had forgotten, and did as she asked, kicking the door wide in much the same manner as her. “What?” he said, his voice had grown by an octave, “you scared Father, don’t you know how sick he is?”

Jasmine turned to him, leaning against the counter of their kitchen. “He’s going to die.” A cold knot rung around his throat as she said the words.

“He won’t.”

“He doesn’t have any time left Amar, you know this.”

Gritting his teeth, he stepped across the room towards Jasmine. “Why does it matter if he has any time left? Why must you always bring it up? If he leaves me today or tomorrow, why does it matter? Why can’t you let me enjoy tea with my father?” His voice had grown loud now. It reverberated against the walls, shaking them not unlike the earth tremor a moment ago.

“Because,” Jasmine grabbed his shoulders, tears streamed down her cheeks now. “We will die with him if we don’t go.”

Amar scoffed, throwing his hands in the air as he turned to sit on the couch. “Go here, go there. They all said to go, to leave my house and never return. They’ve all gone and who knows what’s happened to them, most of them are dead, the rest are starving, what has going done for them?”

“Don’t say that Amar, you don’t know that. They’d all be dead if they stayed, you know that. The last of our neighbours, the Belkys, were blown into ash just last week, or have you forgotten?”

Amar waved her away. Every day she brought it up, every damned day. Why couldn’t she just let it go for once, let them live in peace. Sighing, he picked up the tea pot, pouring himself a lukewarm cup.

“No!” Jasmine screamed. She strode across the room, bringing her hand right between his, and spilling the tea across their lounge.

Silence, it filled the void, with only the clattering of the clay cup rippling in the background. Amar stared at his hands, and then looked up, slowly rising as he felt his face grow red and his eyes steam up.

His wife pushed him, hammering against his chest as she screamed. “My father is dead. My sister is dead, both her and her kids.”

“Wh-What?” The heat had vanished from his face, leaving his brow cold as the room began to spin. He steadied himself against the arm of the couch just as his legs buckled. Jasmine wailed, hammering against his chest. “They died this morning, by the grace of God…” she sniffled, “I barely received the call… Amar,” she looked up at him, her eyes were painted a deep crimson as the tears stained her face and cheeks and crusted around her mouth just as her lips spasmed. “Amar! Mum said she was going to leave for the camp, lets go with her, we will die if we stay. You, me, and our daughters.”

He gulped, trying to push back the heart which rotted in his throat. “W-we still have time... father still has time.” Holding his wife in his arms, he looked past her; His eyes trailed the room, they scanned the crusted walls against which he and his brothers would draw lions, they scanned the kitchen, from where his grandmother would chase them if they played marbles. He looked down, to the jute couch, reminded of when he’d sit, and his father would tell him stories of his time at sea. “I’ve grown up here. I’ve spent all my life here. Every moment of time, every memory...”

He looked down at his wife, kissing her on the brow. “We can’t leave, not yet. We still have time.”

The skin beneath her eyes twitched. Her mouth bared into a scowl as she pushed him away. “You fool!” she screamed. “You can stay here and die if you want to, I will take my daughters and leave!”

He grabbed her arm just as she pushed away, “you won’t take my kids away from me.” The fingertips felt deep into her skin. “I’ve said all I need to say.”

Fresh tears dotted her eyes. “Fuck you.” She spat, breaking from his grip before she ran, pushing past the front door, sobbing as her shoulders shuddered.

He was going to go after her. Amar was going to chase after her, bring her back, and then they would raise their family in the house he had grown in himself. They would nurse father back to health, and they would watch as his daughters grew old, had kids of their own.

The jute couch creaked as he fell backwards. Sighing, he rocked back as he held his face in his hands, feeling nothing but the rot in his heart. The minutes passed in silence, the only sound he heard was that of his own breathing, the movement of his chest rising and falling. And then there was the quiet whimpers, he peeked through his fingers to find his daughters standing beside him, bedraggled in their tattered pyjamas.

“Is mum coming back?” the younger one asked.

“Are we going to die?” asked the eldest.

Amar leaned forward; did they hear everything? He wondered as he placed an arm on their shoulders pulling them close. “No no, don’t say such things my babies.”

“Mum’s right though, all our neighbours have left. No one tells us anything, but we know the Belkys are dead,” the eldest looked up at him, her eyes fresh with tears, exactly like her mother’s, as her mouth spasmed with fear, “Papa…” she cried, “are we going to die too.”

His jaw hung loose as he watched his daughters, as he watched the tears stream down their cheeks and as the youngest, his sweet Amiya, began to cry. His throat dried, it spasmed as he grasped for words.

 And then the walls shuddered. In the distance a boom erupted, it flung the pots and pans off the counter, sending them clattering against the floor. Amiya and Rosa screamed as the shockwave ripped through, he pulled them close, kissing them on their cheeks as glass and clay shattered, as the splinter of porcelain rang in their house.

His heart clutched as the shock from the blast subsided. His breath froze in his lungs as he felt death’s skeletal fingers wrap around his limbs, as he saw his daughters fall into his black robe.

He had no time.

And yet, as his heart pounded, he kissed his daughters on their brows, whispering to them. “Don’t worry my love’s. We have all the time in the world.”