Burn Me
Combs, Lenora
Grade: 11
School: Divide County High School, Crosby ND Educator: Richard Norton
AWARD: Gold Key, American Voices nominee
On July 2, 1944, two weeks after my fourteenth birthday, a letter was brought to my home in the city of Hiroshima, Japan saying that several weeks prior, my father, Yamato Kataoka, a soldier in the Japanese military, had been killed in action in the vicious Battle of Kohima in India.
My mother, a gentle, soft-spoken woman by the name of Misaki, had nearly fallen over when she received the letter and had begun to cry even before it was opened. You see, when a letter addressed from the government is hand-delivered by a man in a military uniform to the door of the family of a soldier, it can mean only one of two things: the family member in the army is dead, or they are missing in action. If they are missing in action, it means they are either dead but the body has not been found, or they have been taken as prisoners of war. Despite what some people might say, in a war as cruel as this one, a large majority of POWs were not expected to survive.
I can still vividly remember the moment when my mother actually opened the letter. Her hands shook as she slit the top of the envelope. She had carefully pulled out the letter and unfolded it as if she feared the paper would crumble to dust in her thin hands. She had read the letter silently to herself, and as soon as she had finished, she had sunk to her knees with a heart-broken wail that ripped my heart to shreds and made it impossible for me to breathe.
My older brother, Isamu, had gently grabbed the letter from our sobbing mother who did nothing to
protest his action and ushered my beyond-frightened little sister and me from the kitchen and into the other room. We had all sat on the floor, holding each other’s hands like lifelines, as Isamu read the letter out loud to us. Akira, at six, had not been able to fully grasp what it really meant like Isamu and I could, but she understood enough of it, joined with the cries of our mother, to know that it meant something bad had happened to our father and that he wouldn’t be coming home.
Even now, I can picture the exact look on my brother’s face when it all really sank in. His deep brown eyes, eyes that had been glistening with unshed tears, hardened. His lips pressed into a thin line as he clenched his teeth together tightly with an audible clack. When I looked at him, I realized, Isamu had changed. Somehow, in just one small, but horribly-damaging second, the brother I knew, had always known, was gone.
For the next few weeks, months even, the differences in Isamu became more and more prominent. He was colder. Eyes that use to be so lively and bright were stony and dark with hatred. Hatred for the British and the Indian soldiers who had killed our father in Kohima. Loathing for all of the Allied nations. Contempt for this abhorrent war.
He became withdrawn, though not quite in the way my mother had become. While she
simply sat around quietly, crying and mourning the loss of her husband, Isamu drew
within himself, and it broke my heart to watch him do so. He and I used to be very close,
he being only two years older than me. But even I, he excluded from his own little world.
Sometimes he would go for long walks by himself while Akira and I were at school or
while we worked on our homework. He, himself, had quit school a week after news of
our father had come.
It was on a Thursday in the middle of the month of August that Isamu didn’t return home until very late at night. Long after I had settled Akira in her bed and my mother had retired to her own room, I stayed up waiting for him even though I had to go to school in the morning. When he finally returned, I made a point of yelling at him, to ensure that he understood how worried I had been about him.
My big brother, who, a month and a half earlier, would have laughed at me for how high- strung I was, simply stood still, silently taking my ranting. I eventually ran out of things to say, and when I did, Isamu looked me in the eye and said, “Yuki, we need to talk,” in a more serious tone than I had ever heard him speak in before. We sat, and after a few moments of undeniably tense silence, Isamu broke it again.
“Yuki, I think I am going to enlist in the military.”
With that sentence and the heavy words it entailed, another part of my world cracked and shattered. I protested, of course, nearly waking up my mother and sister with the volume of my voice. He was too young, I tried to reason with him. They wouldn’t even take him at sixteen. He simply said that he would lie about his age just as many others had done.
“Isamu, niichan, we need you here, at home.” I had tried desperately. “I need you here.” He was silent in that stubborn way of his. Our father had been the same way.
“Well, then what if you are killed? What if you die, just like... just like father did?” I had yelled, “Do you not realize what that would do to okaasan? To Akira? To me?”
He had lifted his head then, sitting up taller in his worn and splintered wooden chair.
“I do understand, Yuki. I do.” And suddenly his hand was underneath my chin, a tanned thumb gently wiping away a tear I hadn’t noticed sliding down my cheek. “But I’ve thought about it a lot. This is something I have to do. For otousan, for okaasan, for my sisters, and for myself.”
Isamu had left the following week, and it wasn’t until almost two months later that we finally got word of his success in enlisting. By then, he had already started his training.
***
It was on a Thursday in the middle of the month of August that Isamu didn’t return home until very late at night. Long after I had settled Akira in her bed and my mother had retired to her own room, I stayed up waiting for him even though I had to go to school in the morning. When he finally returned, I made a point of yelling at him, to ensure that he understood how worried I had been about him.
My big brother, who, a month and a half earlier, would have laughed at me for how high- strung I was, simply stood still, silently taking my ranting. I eventually ran out of things to say, and when I did, Isamu looked me in the eye and said, “Yuki, we need to talk,” in a more serious tone than I had ever heard him speak in before. We sat, and after a few moments of undeniably tense silence, Isamu broke it again.
“Yuki, I think I am going to enlist in the military.”
With that sentence and the heavy words it entailed, another part of my world cracked and shattered. I protested, of course, nearly waking up my mother and sister with the volume of my voice. He was too young, I tried to reason with him. They wouldn’t even take him at sixteen. He simply said that he would lie about his age just as many others had done.
“Isamu, niichan, we need you here, at home.” I had tried desperately. “I need you here.” He was silent in that stubborn way of his. Our father had been the same way.
“Well, then what if you are killed? What if you die, just like... just like father did?” I had yelled, “Do you not realize what that would do to okaasan? To Akira? To me?”
He had lifted his head then, sitting up taller in his worn and splintered wooden chair.
“I do understand, Yuki. I do.” And suddenly his hand was underneath my chin, a tanned thumb gently wiping away a tear I hadn’t noticed sliding down my cheek. “But I’ve thought about it a lot. This is something I have to do. For otousan, for okaasan, for my sisters, and for myself.”
Isamu had left the following week, and it wasn’t until almost two months later that we finally got word of his success in enlisting. By then, he had already started his training.
***
On Monday, August 6, 1945, just as the sun was peaking over the horizon making the
brightening sky become awash in an array of soft orange, pink, lilac, and blue, I awoke in
a cold sweat. I abruptly sat straight up on my woven mat, panting the slightest bit as I
tried to catch the breath that seemed to have been stolen from my lungs, as well as calm
my rapidly beating heart.
I had the dream again, the one I always seem to have every night as I tried to sleep. It was a recurring dream that had plagued me for just short of a year, on and off as it was. In it, I would see my father, standing tall and proud in his military-issued uniform, hat on his head and gun in his hand. He was in a group of a dozen or so other soldiers, each dressed identically down to the button. It always felt so real, like I was right there, like I could reach out and touch him. He was there. He was breathing. He was alive.
All of a sudden, a gunshot would ring out, then another. I would be anchored in place, immobile and screaming a voiceless scream as I watch my father join the dirt and timber that lie upon the ground. The two holes in his tan uniform became rimmed in red as blood poured from the two bullet wounds in his chest. Everything else, the shouting, the returning of fire, would fade away and become mute while I would be unable to do anything but stare, horrified, as my father gasped for air. After what felt like hours or even days, his eyes would gloss over. Just like that, he was dead, his lifeless eyes, staring directly into mine.
Every time, I expect it to end there, but it never does. The part that actually manages to wake me up every morning is when my dead father’s face begins to warp unnaturally until it is not my father’s dark eyes I’m looking into, but my brother’s.
That’s when I wake up, just as I have today. Ever since Isamu announced his decision to join the military, I have been terrified that any day we would get another letter telling us that he was dead, just as we did when our father died. This dream, no, this nightmare of mine seems to be preying upon those fears. I can only hope and pray that it stays a nightmare.
I finally composed myself enough to stand up, knowing that with the sun already rising, there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. A quick glance out my window led me to believe that it was nearly 7:00 a.m. Soon my mother and little sister would be awake and preparing for the day.
I dressed in a simple blouse and shirt. I preferred to wear traditional kimonos rather than the Western style, but my mother wanted me to save my kimonos for special occasions. I satisfied myself with putting my long, dark hair up in a traditional Japanese woman bun. To hold it in place, I fixed in a beautiful red and white flower hairpin my father had given me as a birthday present several years ago.
Breakfast consisted of a small bowl of natto and white rice. When my mother set bowls on the low table before us, Akira immediately began to dig in with gusto. Mother noticed as she sat down on a cushion to join us, and she placed a gentle hand atop my sister’s as she again raised her chopsticks to take another large bite.
I had the dream again, the one I always seem to have every night as I tried to sleep. It was a recurring dream that had plagued me for just short of a year, on and off as it was. In it, I would see my father, standing tall and proud in his military-issued uniform, hat on his head and gun in his hand. He was in a group of a dozen or so other soldiers, each dressed identically down to the button. It always felt so real, like I was right there, like I could reach out and touch him. He was there. He was breathing. He was alive.
All of a sudden, a gunshot would ring out, then another. I would be anchored in place, immobile and screaming a voiceless scream as I watch my father join the dirt and timber that lie upon the ground. The two holes in his tan uniform became rimmed in red as blood poured from the two bullet wounds in his chest. Everything else, the shouting, the returning of fire, would fade away and become mute while I would be unable to do anything but stare, horrified, as my father gasped for air. After what felt like hours or even days, his eyes would gloss over. Just like that, he was dead, his lifeless eyes, staring directly into mine.
Every time, I expect it to end there, but it never does. The part that actually manages to wake me up every morning is when my dead father’s face begins to warp unnaturally until it is not my father’s dark eyes I’m looking into, but my brother’s.
That’s when I wake up, just as I have today. Ever since Isamu announced his decision to join the military, I have been terrified that any day we would get another letter telling us that he was dead, just as we did when our father died. This dream, no, this nightmare of mine seems to be preying upon those fears. I can only hope and pray that it stays a nightmare.
I finally composed myself enough to stand up, knowing that with the sun already rising, there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. A quick glance out my window led me to believe that it was nearly 7:00 a.m. Soon my mother and little sister would be awake and preparing for the day.
I dressed in a simple blouse and shirt. I preferred to wear traditional kimonos rather than the Western style, but my mother wanted me to save my kimonos for special occasions. I satisfied myself with putting my long, dark hair up in a traditional Japanese woman bun. To hold it in place, I fixed in a beautiful red and white flower hairpin my father had given me as a birthday present several years ago.
Breakfast consisted of a small bowl of natto and white rice. When my mother set bowls on the low table before us, Akira immediately began to dig in with gusto. Mother noticed as she sat down on a cushion to join us, and she placed a gentle hand atop my sister’s as she again raised her chopsticks to take another large bite.
“My child, slow down,” she lightly chastised in a soft, patient voice. “There is no need for you to be in such a rush. Eat slower and enjoy your natto.”
“Yes, kaa-chan,” Akira replied, obediently doing what had been requested of her.
By this point in my life, I considered myself to be pretty good at reading people, especially when it came to my family, so I knew what my mother was really thinking just by the way her brow crinkled the slightest bit. Her eyes gave off a worried glow and when she retracted her hand, she began to wring them together in her lap in a nervous manner.
It was the money she was worried about. We had managed to get by fairly well on just the small amount of compensation money we got from the government for the death of my father and what little money my mother could make doing odd jobs like washing, sewing, and other things that Akira and I usually could help with. Isamu also contributed by sending most of the money he received as his military service pay, though that also wasn’t much. However, as of late we seemed to be lower on money than usual. I had noticed the decrease in the amount of our food in the kitchen and the smaller meal servings. Of course, my mother would not tell me anything. She didn’t want to worry me, didn’t want to put any of that on a fifteen-year-old girl. I got that. It’s just something parents did. But that didn’t stop me from worrying.
At 7:50, Akira and I prepared to leave for school. As I helped pack small lunches for my younger sister and myself, I remembered that today was Monday. In my school, Mondays mean that all of the kids who don’t have radios at home (and that was most of us) would finally get to hear what was going on with the war, provided we wanted to.
After my father’s death, I hadn’t wanted to hear anything about the war. It sickened me and still does. But when Isamu enlisted, I began to listen again. Aside from his occasional letters, it was the only way I could know what was or what could be happening to him, though it often had more to do with guessing rather than knowing.
Last Monday, we had again heard about the demands of the United States, United Kingdom, and China for Japan’s surrender. What those countries didn’t seem to realize is that the Japanese people are actually very stubborn. Our leaders were no different, and because of this, they refused the demands of the Allies.
I almost wish that they would have just agreed, if only to end this war so that my family and the rest of the world can finally live in peace.
***
I am standing at the front door by 8:05, books and lunch in hand. Akira, true to her ‘do- everything-at-the-last-possible-second’ nature, rushes around the house, grabbing her own books that had been scattered around throughout the weekend.
“Akira!” I call, more than a little annoyed. “Come on or we will be late!” Though school
didn’t start until 8:30, it was still a ten to twelve minute walk.
“I’m coming, Yuki!” And suddenly the seven-year-old appeared in the kitchen doorway, my mother just behind her with Akira’s lunch. The three of us walked out the door, my mother so that she could wave us off as she always did.
She pulled me into a hug, saying, “Have a good day, Yuki.”
“And you as well, okaasan,” I said, returning the hug. Then we were off.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was bright, blue, and beautifully clear with hardly a cloud. The sun shone over top of the houses in our neighborhood and I welcomed its soft heat. Children began to emerge from their own houses, joining us on our trek to school. Many, I knew, went to the same school as Akira and me, and a few of the older ones were my classmates. Adults also joined us as they walked to their jobs. Hardly anyone for blocks around owned a vehicle, and those who did rarely used them if they were able to walk instead, it helped to save money.
After ten minutes of walking, Akira started to shout excitedly a meter or two behind me. I paused and turned around to see her pointing up to the bright blue sky at three airplanes flying slightly lower than usual above the center of the city which was roughly 1.8 kilometers from my neighborhood.
Immediately, I could tell that they were not any of the planes that usually flew in this area.
I saw something drop from one of the planes, looking like little more than a dot in the sky from this distance. A parachute soon unfurled over top of the object. My brother had always been fascinated with planes of all kinds, Japanese and otherwise. This one I half- recognized from his one of his enthusiastic descriptions. It looked like it could be a B-29, though I couldn’t be positive. My heart began to race. If it really was a B-29, the parachute that had been dropped from the bomber could be holding some kind of bomb. They were bombing Hiroshima.
Before I could grab my sister or even get out the scream that was trying to form in my throat, the world suddenly erupted in a white, hot, blinding light. For those few seconds, I couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything. I’m not sure if I was even breathing.
Black replaced the white as I fell unconscious.
***
I woke for the second time that morning, groggy, with a massive headache, and wondering when my sleeping mat had become hard as rock.
“I’m coming, Yuki!” And suddenly the seven-year-old appeared in the kitchen doorway, my mother just behind her with Akira’s lunch. The three of us walked out the door, my mother so that she could wave us off as she always did.
She pulled me into a hug, saying, “Have a good day, Yuki.”
“And you as well, okaasan,” I said, returning the hug. Then we were off.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was bright, blue, and beautifully clear with hardly a cloud. The sun shone over top of the houses in our neighborhood and I welcomed its soft heat. Children began to emerge from their own houses, joining us on our trek to school. Many, I knew, went to the same school as Akira and me, and a few of the older ones were my classmates. Adults also joined us as they walked to their jobs. Hardly anyone for blocks around owned a vehicle, and those who did rarely used them if they were able to walk instead, it helped to save money.
After ten minutes of walking, Akira started to shout excitedly a meter or two behind me. I paused and turned around to see her pointing up to the bright blue sky at three airplanes flying slightly lower than usual above the center of the city which was roughly 1.8 kilometers from my neighborhood.
Immediately, I could tell that they were not any of the planes that usually flew in this area.
I saw something drop from one of the planes, looking like little more than a dot in the sky from this distance. A parachute soon unfurled over top of the object. My brother had always been fascinated with planes of all kinds, Japanese and otherwise. This one I half- recognized from his one of his enthusiastic descriptions. It looked like it could be a B-29, though I couldn’t be positive. My heart began to race. If it really was a B-29, the parachute that had been dropped from the bomber could be holding some kind of bomb. They were bombing Hiroshima.
Before I could grab my sister or even get out the scream that was trying to form in my throat, the world suddenly erupted in a white, hot, blinding light. For those few seconds, I couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything. I’m not sure if I was even breathing.
Black replaced the white as I fell unconscious.
***
I woke for the second time that morning, groggy, with a massive headache, and wondering when my sleeping mat had become hard as rock.
As my mind cleared, I began to notice the heat, the stench of smoke and dust, and the
terrible, agonized screams I could just barely hear through the ringing in my ears. I
opened my eyes carefully, blinking several times to focus them, and I was instantly met
with the sight of a burning house several meters to my right. Through the heavy layer of
dust in the air, I could just barely make out a flailing figure approaching the open door,
half of their body engulfed in flames, before the entire roof caved in. Just like that, the
burning person was gone.
Shocked, I try to sit up with a jerk only for a shock of agony to run throughout my entire body. I cry out, though the sound is lost in the cacophony of other cries, and fall back, taking deep breaths as I stared up at the strangely copper-colored sky.
I gritted my teeth and gingerly lifted my head from what I now realize is the lawn of another collapsed house, to examine myself as best as I could. My arms and legs were bloodied and covered in dirt. Nasty burns -deep, blistering, and red or blackened- marred the once tan skin on each of my limbs. The most gruesome one I could see was on my left calf, so deep I could nearly see the bone, and pieces of the bottom of my skirt seemed to have melted into the mangled skin. The sight caused bile to rise in my throat so I quickly looked away.
All over, pieces of broken glass and wood were sticking out of my skin, some in much deeper than others. I try to pick some of the smaller ones out of my neck and upper chest, but my red, blistered fingers shook and burned so badly, I stopped after only a managing to get a few out. Further examination revealed that the side of my face that burned like the fire around me actually had been burned, chunks of my hair were gone, and my still- ringing ears were bleeding as was the back of my head where it must have hit the ground.
I groan as I raise my head a little higher, trying to prop myself up painfully on my elbows in order to get a good look around. The sight is horrific.
The entire block and the next few that I could see were in flames, the roofs and walls of almost every house were caved in, and some were already nothing more than piles of burning lumber. Bodies were everywhere, sprawled on the road, on lawns as I was, on doorsteps and porches, and buried under the rubble of their own homes. Those not on the ground walked, stumbled, and dragged themselves down the streets as they tried to get away from the spreading fire, while others knelt in front of the bodies, weeping and holding them close, or trying to help the live ones to their feet.
Almost everyone –men, women, and children alike- looked generally the same: covered in blood, dirt, dust, and ash, burned and blackened, with pieces of glass and wood chips sticking into their skin. Some had their limbs twisted in such a way that they had to be broken. Some even had melted skin hanging limply from their arms and were forced to walk with their arms out straight so as not to agitate the flaps. People screamed, cried, wailed, groaned, and shouted the names of family and friends.
Shocked, I try to sit up with a jerk only for a shock of agony to run throughout my entire body. I cry out, though the sound is lost in the cacophony of other cries, and fall back, taking deep breaths as I stared up at the strangely copper-colored sky.
I gritted my teeth and gingerly lifted my head from what I now realize is the lawn of another collapsed house, to examine myself as best as I could. My arms and legs were bloodied and covered in dirt. Nasty burns -deep, blistering, and red or blackened- marred the once tan skin on each of my limbs. The most gruesome one I could see was on my left calf, so deep I could nearly see the bone, and pieces of the bottom of my skirt seemed to have melted into the mangled skin. The sight caused bile to rise in my throat so I quickly looked away.
All over, pieces of broken glass and wood were sticking out of my skin, some in much deeper than others. I try to pick some of the smaller ones out of my neck and upper chest, but my red, blistered fingers shook and burned so badly, I stopped after only a managing to get a few out. Further examination revealed that the side of my face that burned like the fire around me actually had been burned, chunks of my hair were gone, and my still- ringing ears were bleeding as was the back of my head where it must have hit the ground.
I groan as I raise my head a little higher, trying to prop myself up painfully on my elbows in order to get a good look around. The sight is horrific.
The entire block and the next few that I could see were in flames, the roofs and walls of almost every house were caved in, and some were already nothing more than piles of burning lumber. Bodies were everywhere, sprawled on the road, on lawns as I was, on doorsteps and porches, and buried under the rubble of their own homes. Those not on the ground walked, stumbled, and dragged themselves down the streets as they tried to get away from the spreading fire, while others knelt in front of the bodies, weeping and holding them close, or trying to help the live ones to their feet.
Almost everyone –men, women, and children alike- looked generally the same: covered in blood, dirt, dust, and ash, burned and blackened, with pieces of glass and wood chips sticking into their skin. Some had their limbs twisted in such a way that they had to be broken. Some even had melted skin hanging limply from their arms and were forced to walk with their arms out straight so as not to agitate the flaps. People screamed, cried, wailed, groaned, and shouted the names of family and friends.
I took it all in, petrified by what I was seeing, hoping that it was all just a new twisted
part of my nightmare, and praying that I would wake up soon, have breakfast for real, and
walk to school with Akira.
It feels like a physical blow when I remember that I had been walking with my baby sister when the bomb had gone off, when I realized that I had not seen her or even heard her voice calling out my name since I awoke.
I force myself to sit up fully, doing my best to ignore the flares of pain radiating through every inch of my body. I am panting when I finally to get into a sitting position. I glance around again at the people around me, praying that the face of one of the children standing or sitting on the ground crying and injured, but alive, is the face of my Akira. None of them are.
I make my eyes look at each of the smaller bodies curled or lying prone on the ground. With a few, I can just make out the rise and fall of their chests, but others are completely still. One of the still ones, lying on the road with their back toward me, I initially pass over. But then a flash of color catches my eye and brings my gaze back to the body.
A small piece of undamaged fabric peeks out from between the child’s right shoulder and the ground. My breath catches in my throat as I recognize the floral pattern of my sister’s favorite dress. The one she had worn this morning.
There’s a new kind of pain now, far worse than the agony from any of my injuries. It tightens my chest painfully, gripping my heart in a vise-like hold, and overrides all else as I drag myself on my belly over to the body, trying to call out my sister’s name, but only managing a hoarse whisper that receives no reply.
A long and sharp piece of glass cuts into my lower stomach which immediately begins to ooze blood, but I ignore it and continue until I am within arm’s reach of the girl I pray is not Akira. I again move onto my back and prop myself on one arm. Reaching up with my other badly shaking hand to grip the girl’s shoulder, I roll her onto her back. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to the arm that covers her eyes. The fabric of the long sleeve of her dress had melted into her skin, much like my skirt had to my calf. I tasted bile again, felt it burning in the back of my throat. I ignore it, push it back down, and hesitantly reach out to pull the arm away from the girl’s face, holding my breath.
It’s Akira. Her face is burned almost beyond recognition just like the rest of her small body, as if she had been caught in an explosion, and most of her long, beautiful hair is gone. But her eyes are open, staring blankly at nothing, just like my father’s and brother’s in my dream.
I let out a choked wail that was cut short by the emptying of my stomach. When I finished I curled up next to the lifeless form beside me. My sister is dead. How was I supposed to tell my brother? How could I possibly go home and tell my mother that her baby was dead? Was she dead too?
It feels like a physical blow when I remember that I had been walking with my baby sister when the bomb had gone off, when I realized that I had not seen her or even heard her voice calling out my name since I awoke.
I force myself to sit up fully, doing my best to ignore the flares of pain radiating through every inch of my body. I am panting when I finally to get into a sitting position. I glance around again at the people around me, praying that the face of one of the children standing or sitting on the ground crying and injured, but alive, is the face of my Akira. None of them are.
I make my eyes look at each of the smaller bodies curled or lying prone on the ground. With a few, I can just make out the rise and fall of their chests, but others are completely still. One of the still ones, lying on the road with their back toward me, I initially pass over. But then a flash of color catches my eye and brings my gaze back to the body.
A small piece of undamaged fabric peeks out from between the child’s right shoulder and the ground. My breath catches in my throat as I recognize the floral pattern of my sister’s favorite dress. The one she had worn this morning.
There’s a new kind of pain now, far worse than the agony from any of my injuries. It tightens my chest painfully, gripping my heart in a vise-like hold, and overrides all else as I drag myself on my belly over to the body, trying to call out my sister’s name, but only managing a hoarse whisper that receives no reply.
A long and sharp piece of glass cuts into my lower stomach which immediately begins to ooze blood, but I ignore it and continue until I am within arm’s reach of the girl I pray is not Akira. I again move onto my back and prop myself on one arm. Reaching up with my other badly shaking hand to grip the girl’s shoulder, I roll her onto her back. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to the arm that covers her eyes. The fabric of the long sleeve of her dress had melted into her skin, much like my skirt had to my calf. I tasted bile again, felt it burning in the back of my throat. I ignore it, push it back down, and hesitantly reach out to pull the arm away from the girl’s face, holding my breath.
It’s Akira. Her face is burned almost beyond recognition just like the rest of her small body, as if she had been caught in an explosion, and most of her long, beautiful hair is gone. But her eyes are open, staring blankly at nothing, just like my father’s and brother’s in my dream.
I let out a choked wail that was cut short by the emptying of my stomach. When I finished I curled up next to the lifeless form beside me. My sister is dead. How was I supposed to tell my brother? How could I possibly go home and tell my mother that her baby was dead? Was she dead too?
I stayed there, unmoving, wishing that the flames that had been growing steadily closer
would swallow me up and burn me where I lay.
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