April 21st, 1983, "Halt!" The soldier's shout exploded through the night, sharp and merciless, striking me like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat, and my body moved before my mind could catch up. I scrambled beneath the bed, my hands slipping against the cold floorboards in my frantic rush to find cover. The first gunshot rang out, deafening and brutal. My ears seemed to vibrate with the impact, and I felt as though the sound had torn straight through me. Then came the second, and the third, each one louder, angrier. The gunfire filled every corner of my small apartment, pressing against me, crushing me. I clapped my hands over my ears, but it didn't help. The noise was inside me now.
I tried to steady my breathing, but the panic was relentless, clawing its way up my throat. My body shook uncontrollably, and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. Then came the sound that shattered the last thread of my composure—a heavy, sickening thud. The unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. Someone had tried to escape the curfew. Someone had died. A wave of nausea rose in my chest, and a sob escaped before I could stop it. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, but I couldn't move to wipe them away. My body was locked in place, paralyzed by terror. Then, to my horror, I felt another warmth spreading, unwelcome and mortifying. I had lost control of my bladder, the fear too overwhelming for my body to contain. I gasped softly, the shame hitting me almost as hard as the terror. But even that paled in comparison to the violent pounding of my heart as more gunfire echoed outside.
Then came the crash. Glass shattered somewhere in the room—the window, I realized, struck by a stray bullet or its proximity. Tiny shards scattered across the floor, glittering faintly in the dim light. The sound froze me in place, every muscle locked, every nerve raw and exposed. If I had been near that window… I couldn't let the thought finish. My whole body trembled, and I pressed my face against the floor, feeling its cool surface against my burning skin. "Oh mon Dieu," I whispered, the words fragile and desperate, barely audible over the ringing in my ears. I didn't even know who or what I was praying to. Perhaps it was for forgiveness. Perhaps it was just for the world to go silent. The footsteps of the soldiers thundered outside, boots striking the pavement with heavy precision. My tears continued to fall silently, my body curled tightly beneath the bed as if I could fold myself into nothingness. My breath hitched in sharp, uneven gasps, and my pulse roared in my ears like a drumbeat of dread.
The seconds dragged by, each one heavier than the last. My world had shrunk to this space beneath the bed, this sliver of shadow and silence where I prayed they couldn't find me. But even as the soldiers' boots began to fade into the distance, the fear remained. It was in my chest, in my trembling limbs, in the still-warm evidence of my loss of control. I stayed there long after the noise had stopped, unable to move. My body felt like it had turned to stone, rigid and unyielding, and yet inside I was crumbling. The air in the room was thick with tension, and the faint metallic tang of fear—my fear—clung to me like a second skin. I felt the sharp press of tears drying on my face, and my muscles ached from the effort of holding myself so tightly. When I finally crawled out, the cold floor against my knees sent a shiver through me. I glanced at the shattered glass scattered across the room and the faint reflection of my pale, haggard face in the shards. My legs wobbled as I stood, and I hugged my arms around myself, trying to hold on to what little strength I had left. I'm alive, I thought numbly, the words hollow and meaningless. But as I stared at the broken window and the silent street beyond, I knew the night had taken something from me. Something I might never get back.
The bathroom mirror reflected a face I could barely recognize—pale, tear-streaked, and trembling. My chest still heaved with shallow breaths, and my hands, clammy and shaking, struggled to turn the faucet. I splashed cold water onto my face, hoping to wash away the lingering terror. It didn't work. My eyes kept darting to the doorway, half expecting another sound, another shatter, another scream. I peeled off my clothes, the remnants of fear and humiliation clinging to me like a second skin. The water from the shower stung as it rushed over me, but I didn't care. I scrubbed myself furiously, as though I could erase the vulnerability that had overtaken me. When I finally stepped out, I grabbed a towel and held it tightly around me, shivering—not from the cold but from the memory of what had just happened.
Cleaning the mess beneath the bed was mechanical. My hands moved on their own, wiping, sweeping, discarding, as my mind replayed the sounds from outside. The sharp crack of gunfire, the terrible finality of that heavy thud. It was easier to focus on cleaning than to face what those sounds meant. When the main room was as spotless as I could manage, I stared at the shattered window, its jagged edges gleaming faintly. It seemed to mock me, a reminder of how fragile even the illusion of safety was. I couldn't stay there. Not tonight. The bathroom had become my refuge, and I wasn't ready to leave it. I gathered my blankets, my pillow, and a few extra clothes for warmth, bundling them up as I returned to the small, cold space. The tub loomed before me, its surface unyielding and uncomfortable, but I didn't care. It would protect me better than any bed ever could.
I arranged the makeshift bedding as best as I could, softening the harsh edges and layering the blankets to keep the cold at bay. When it was ready, I climbed in, curling up against the porcelain sides. The blankets pressed tightly around me, and I hugged myself beneath them, trying to convince my body that I was safe. But I wasn't. My heart still raced, and every creak of the floor, every faint noise from outside, sent a fresh spike of fear through me. I closed my eyes, pulling the blanket over my head as though the layers of fabric could shield me from the world. My body trembled with exhaustion, yet sleep refused to come. Instead, I lay there, staring at the small, cracked ceiling above me and listening to the steady rhythm of my own breathing. It was the only sound I could rely on now, the only proof I was still here. Still alive.