Hold out your hand.
That's it. Now try and forget.
There is peace now, in this woe-begotten time. This place is not so violent in the dusky light of late afternoon. When we first came to see it – why? I don't quite recall. Closure, perhaps – it was noon, the merciless light hot on our necks, like a scorching iron pressed right up against the skin. I still remember how you looked, surrounded by ash and rubble, an angel cut out of white cloth and stitched crudely back to the bleak scenery. I don't think we cried then, but we do now, not left sucked dry by the constant hum of "I'm so sorry"s and "It's just so sad"s.
Your arms shake, the gentle curve of your bosom heaving with each wracking breath. Don't hold back the sorrow seeping from every millimetre of your body.
A small hand slips into my own and I am brought out of this little reverie. Our tiny sister peers up with a tearful grin. The last shred of sanity, or whatever I plead was holding my heart together, is ripped up by the moist cheeks and red-rimmed eyes staring up in confusion, and understanding.
I look to you, and a stony façade has covered the broken features of the girl I have loved. Cold eyes do not belong in such a lovely face. You turn on your heel and kick your way out through the ashy rubble. You don't even turn to say,
"Come along. Let's go." And all I want to do is collapse; succumb to the squeezing pressure that is threatening to crush my heart, but I follow with a tiny hand in mine and think the words I wish to shout.
"Please, don't leave."
-liadan