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Dear Doomsday Diary:


By Prashanth ChandrasegaramPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 7 min read
Then, in an instant, everything changed...

Dear Doomsday Diary,

It came like red rain and set the city aflame.

This twisted tirade produced by mortal mans’ minds was driven by the delusion of immortal illusion—was it fair fate or cruel karma?

Before the sky lit up bright with fire, that evening was smothered in the dark as we were smothered in soot.

The streets were covered in ash. People were running. People were screaming. Brother was crying. The sirens screamed and hurt our ears but the people's screams hurt our hearts. The stink of a city burning and a city reduced to rubble was stuck in my nostrils. I remember so vividly mom's dry-but-blodied hands. I remember seeing her clenching onto my brother's smaller hands.

I ran for cover, beside my brother, behind my mother. I remember the dark, ominous plumes of smoke emerging from the haze of greys and contritruated concrete clouds.

The air was choking us.

I could blame this on absent angels. Maybe, they were already occupied, already aiding another family elsewhere, already fighting fiendish forces of evil in some far-off land, leaving liable my little family to an afreet’s apathetic, atrocious artistry as he fashioned our pain into poetry: We needed to breathe the air to live but each breath we took brought us closer to death. The truth behind these poetic pains, I know not. But, perhaps, I entertain the arcane to keep me sane. Regardless, because of merciless men, the worry of breathing in air, a once far-forth fiction, became the relentless reality. I remember thinking that I was going to die in that moment as the angel of death gripped us in his signature stranglehold.

But, fate would be too kind,

and, though death would be sweet,

I still wanted my life,

despite life’s bleak effete.

Then, in a fleeting instant, everything changed.

We were short of breath and short of time. As my bloodied arm dripped, my sense of safety slipped as the sounding sirens’ screams surrounded us. There was only dread and despair filling the thick air as the whistles of missiles drowned out the cries and wails of everyone around us.

We escaped from the once Brobdingnagian bank building as it crumbled. We escaped to the car and mom drove us toward shore as the ground rumbled.

That cold night was my last sight of lady liberty’s light. You can still see her faint form from far-off.

But, now, the city as we knew it is no more.

And, now, the life as we knew was no more.

That night, mom told us to be strong. With her blood-covered hands, round my dirty neck, she laced on a chain with her golden heart-shaped locket on it. After the warmth of her loving kisses fleeted from our cold, dusty cheeks, she ran her gentle hands through our jet-black hair. Then, she shook her hand at a set of sullen soldiers, so that they would allow us to board the boat. We walked down the path by the shadowy shoreline that stretched into the distance and faded away into the foggy air. Then, as we got closer to the ship to board it, the soldiers separated us from mom before we could grab her warm, loving hands. On the boat, when brother and I looked around, we saw mom still on the port. She waved and blew a kiss. Brother started to cry. I grabbed his hand, telling him that everything was alright, and that he need not say a word. After all, mom told us to be strong.

Then, the sky lit up with blinding reds. It was as if the sky was on fire.

The light was so brief yet so blindingly bright. I remember you could feel a warm, yet uncomfortable and unwelcome heat on your forehead when it happened, when the nukes came.

From that moment onward, she was gone and we were orphans. And, that cold night, we watched her look up to the sky as the nightsky turned to blood. Then, she looked at us again, locking her eyes on us with her warm smile before she dived into the cold water. That was the last night we saw her. The next few nuclear bombs probably were dropped much closer and decimated the city, but, by that time, the boat had sailed far off into the water.

That night, mom, brother, and I were covered in dust. And, if brother and I were closer toward the fireball, we would have become dust. We could have become like the dust that covered us that night. And, though we escaped the fate of becoming dust, one day, we will return to dust. And, maybe, after that day, we can have a happy reunion over supper. Maybe, after that day, we can feel the warmth of mom’s kisses on our cheeks like we did that night. Maybe, after that day, we can feel her run her gentle hands through our now grown hair like we did that night.

Maybe, you’ll see this one day.

Until then, mom, I will be strong.

We will be strong.

Mom, if you ever read this, I want you to know:

We love you.

We miss you.

And this is the end of my diary entry, dear doomsday diary.

It would be too dangerous for brother and I to write about this any further.

That cold night, mom must have figured that the boat and soldiers would be by the shore. She figured that the nukes were coming. She figured that she had to make this sacrifice—or else she would have figured out another way to be with us. And, as a loving mother would, she sacrificed herself for us unflinchingly. Just like the golden heart she strung around my neck that night, mom’s heart was made of gold. Dad would say that she was a brilliant brain and a brilliant beauty. Dad was right: She was beautiful—brilliantly beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful, beautiful inside and out. And, that night, she proved it out, as if gold being tested in a fire, with that golden heart of hers. I remembered how dad would make mom smile from ear to ear when he told her how beautiful she was. And, so, now, I guess it was my dad that inspired me to alliterate my words when I write because of the way dad would make mom smile with his words. So, I hope that one day, if mom does ever come back, I could make her smile with my words in the diary just as dad would make her smile with his words even though the words that I ink come from the bloody ink of my bleeding heart.

And, so, that cold night was my last sight of mom. She was our lady liberty, our bright beacon. And, the brilliance of her light outshone the hellish, red sky that night. When our lady liberty put that golden heart around my neck, her looming love lit lingering lights in our hearts to stand strong.

I remember it all like it was yesterday.

But, that happened about 3 years ago today.

I was 7 back then.


…because I am 10,

because I write,

because I alliterate,

because I philosophize,

because I was born,

I am a monster to this world—just like mom was.

That’s why she had to jump that night. Some said that she had a mental breakdown. Some said that she may have slipped and fallen in after being startled by the nukes blowing up. But, we knew—we knew why. That’s why I told brother not to say a word—not to cry out for mom as we watched her leave us that night.

Because, if anyone….

….if ANYONE EVER figured out that we were HER kids, they would figure out that we were MONSTERS too.

Because, if anyone ever found out, they would HATE us because of her. They would blame us for this war. They would blame us for the nukes. They would blame us for EVERYTHING. I wish they understood; We’re not monsters! And, the war isn’t our fault! And, the nukes weren’t our fault! And, they DIDN’T NEED TO KILL MOM!! We’re all people—everyone of us. Every single one! We all are made of dust; if anyone was nuked, they’d become dust too, right? If, we are dust, then to dust we will return. That means mom was dust too--just like everyone else! But, though mom was dust, she was beautiful dust. To brother and me, she was the most beautiful dust we had ever laid eyes upon. She was beautiful glittering gold dust. She was beautiful sparkling stardust. She was beautiful inside and out. But, still, though everyone else is dust just as mom, brother, and I are dust, people said bad things about mom. They said that mom was unnatural—that it was unnatural to be so pretty and stay so pretty at her age. Mom said it was rude to ask a lady about her age. I heard her talk to dad about that one suppertime after another lady at work brought it up that same day. That doesn’t make much sense to me, but I wish I could talk about it with her—maybe, she could explain it to me again over supper.

I miss having supper with mom. I miss mom so much. I miss her.

It’s not fair—that the sins of man to seek immortality were placed on our heads. Sins were placed upon the heads of the genetically enhanced—placed on mom’s head.

And, that’s why I couldn’t write this part in my doomsday diary:

Else, they’d want to kill us too.

Short Story

About the Creator

Prashanth Chandrasegaram

Dreaming of escape to a tropical, teardrop-shaped island, a place of my parents' tearful escape, a place once called home.🌴

Red-blooded Tamil. 🇱🇰

Born and raised on Canadian soil. 🇨🇦

HBSc (Neuroscience). 🧠

Working on a CPA. 🧮

Reader insights


Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  2. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

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