Well. DMP has ended. However, the work hasn't. This was the story I wrote to submit for the Advanced Narrative Writing module.
The Last Day
By Mervyn Tan
The morning sun gave no hint of what had happened the night before. The bright, yellow beams of sunshine contrasted dreadfully to the pile of grey rubble that lay below. Amidst the smoking ruins of the buildings, Amos heaved piece after piece of the fragmented concrete that lay over what used to be his home. In a sense of desperation, he clutched the silver cross that hung across his neck and prayed.
A huge explosion had done it. A single blast from a van of plastic explosives had destroyed everything within a hundred yards, including the American Embassy, as well as the bungalow where Amos had lived all his life.
As he became more frantic in his movements, he began to realize that it was too late, that it was a futile effort to try and dig his parents out of the rubble. They were buried under more than a ton of broken concrete, wires, smashed glass, leaking piping, and the chances of finding them before it was too late were practically nil.
Collapsing to his knees, he sobbed, pure tears of the sorrow that filled his heart littered with the specks of dust, dirt and smoke that was still in the air. Everything was grey. Ground zero was grey, nothing else other than mounds of smashed concrete. Even the sky was clouding over, dark skies looming, and the imminent threat of rain
Thunder boomed in the distance, as the first drops of rain began to fall. It seemed like nature’s way of clearing the smoke, the dust, the remnants of the blast, the sadness, almost as if even the sky was crying for the victims of this terrorist attack.
Ushered into a police car, Amos was given a mug of hot chocolate, and huddled under a blanket as the symptoms of shock came to him. He started shivering, cold clammy hands clasped around the cross, praying against hope that his parents would be found, alive. He looked out of the window at what had come to look like a war torn area, with groups of people huddling together under scraps of cardboard, torn umbrellas, some even seeking shelter in the hollow enclaves of the concrete mounds. It was a pitiful sight.
Amos reached out a shaky hand to tap the shoulder of the driver seated in front of him. “Is there any hope?” Amos could barely find his voice to ask the driver the question. The usual, almost motorised reply greeted him, “Don’t worry, we’ll do our best.”
As he slumped back into the back seat, he began to sob. His fingers again clasped the cross, the same way he had seen his mother do it when his grandmother had passed away. Amos’ tears continued.
***
It seemed not much later when Amos awoke, this time in a hard backed chair that you could always find in a police station. He was surrounded by grisly reminders of the blast: people covered in dust walking around, others having heavily bandaged wounds. He took the sight in, and a wave of nausea overcame him.
He ran into the toilet, and let it all out. He turned, and walked towards the sink. He realized that he looked just like the others, like refugees from a war zone, only that his dust covered cheeks were streaked with tear stains. He rinsed off the dirt with water, pausing to look into the mirror again.
Amos walked out of the toilet, his thoughts in turmoil. He queued up at the counter, awaiting his turn for any news about his family.
“Do you have any news about Rob and Martha Laine?”
“Sorry, no luck, kid.”
He walked back to the seat, and sat back down with a heavy heart. Curling up around the filthy blanket he still had, he went back to sleep.
***
It wasn’t long before he awoke to the gentle shakes on his shoulder. He blinked his eyes, and looked up at a grim police officer holding a cup of coffee. He stood up, rubbing his eyes and following the officer to a room. There, the words he had so dreaded were spoken. “I’m sorry, they were dead when we uncovered them.”
Amos’s knees crumpled under him. Curling up in a corner, he began to cry.
The police officer looked at him for a moment, then walked out and left him there wallowing in his own sorrow. The door closed, and all his sobs fell onto empty ears. Amos thought, he recalled all of the times he had with his parents. The happy memories, the unhappy quarrels, the awkward incidents, and the usual day to day lack of communication, the lack of love. It hurt. Deep inside him, Amos regretted. He retrived a family photo from his wallet, and his tears flowed down onto it, smudging the glossy print.
Amos collected his thoughts, and made a decision. He steeled himself, stood up, and walked out of the room. Many turned as he walked out of the police station, including the police officer who had left him alone. Amos ignored all of them, and strode out into the once again benign sunshine.
***
It was late afternoon when they found the body, sprawled face down on the ground. The body, found at the foot of one of the taller undamaged buildings near the site of the blast, belonged to a teenager. A pool of blood surrounded the head of the figure, the body clothed in dusty begrimed clothing. In one clenched fist was a silver cross, and in the other was a stained photograph.
Perhaps, just perhaps, someone else in this world had realised the importance of their parents.
The End
You too.