A/N: New story! I'm studying this in class now and it's really amazingly interesting. In a masochistic way, I suppose. If you don't know, Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological response seen mostly in hostages or other prisoners. The captured prisoners form a bond with their captor, and if they are rescued, might refuse to leave and show loyalty to the captor. If that wasn't clear enough, search the Internet.
Blood. Blood everywhere. Was it hers? Was it her family's? Where was her brother? Her mother? Her grandfather?
"Mama?" she whispered. Her words were stolen from her lips by the roaring fire, the dry air causing her to cough. Her line of vision wavered, and she saw small pinpricks of darkness creeping into the corners of her sight.
"Bro?" she cried. "Grandpa! Anyone!" Slowly, she crawled around on her hands and knees, remembering to stay low to the ground.
Ashes. Ashes everywhere. She struggled to recall what had happened. She remembered coming home from school. She remembered opening the door. She remembered... she remembered her mother running towards her, frantically pushing her out the door. She remembered someone screaming 'Go!' She remembered her little brother, wrapping his arms around her in a giant hug, staring up at her with his soft brown eyes. Goodbye eyes. Farewell eyes. Adieu eyes. She remembered an explosion, and yells, and Grandpa...
She choked, nearly retching, doubled over in pain. Oh gods. He was dead. She remembered seeing his face, so strangely peaceful, clouded gray eyes staring up at her. He had whispered a few traditional blessings of death to her. She had screamed. He had fell.
'What else?'she frantically thought to herself. 'What about Mama and Bro? Where are they? Dead too? Or still alive, somewhere in this heap of rubble and ash and blood?'Struggling to remember, she wandered around, crawling like a lizard towards anyone. Anything.
She bumped into a hard object. Rearing back, she cried out. When the shape didn't stir, she leaned forward, examining it.
This time she did vomit. Averting her head, she let out her pain in her puke. It was her mother and her brother. Her mother had her arms wrapped around him, protecting him, sheltering him. It had not worked. They were both unmistakably dead.
So this was it. She was the last of the family. Slowly, the traumatized girl doubled over into a fetal position, reeking of smoke and vomit and death. And that was how they found her, half-dead, five hours later, with her body curled into a circle, hair splayed around her, and her socks still on.
My mom hates it when I put on socks and go to sleep. Errr.. I suppose it wasn't too bad. A short and mysterious prologue. Sorry for saying 'Bro' and 'her brother' so much, but I thought it would add to the dramatic effect. :D R&R PLAWKS!