A B C Doomed

Child A

Without all the paintings hung out on display the place seemed a lot bigger. More like a maze. There was a ceaseless buzzing in the corridor. A boundless energy of those who moved through it, weaving around each other. Child A kept her head down and pushed her way through the sea of faces. The floor was shiny, just like water.

"Can’t wait for today to be over."

Child A nodded her head in agreement.

"Mom told me to give you this." He handed her a dollar bill, two quarters and a dime.

"It’s for your lunch."

Child A screwed up the note with the coins inside and placed it in her pocket.

"I thought I had five."

"I had to spend a little on the way."

Child A looked down at her shoes. Mom wouldn't be happy.

"It’s nine. See you later."

Child A watched as he disappeared through the double doors. He pushed his way through the crowd that filed into the next hall. Child A took a left turn through a smaller green door with the label G.33. This room was simple, plain, wooden, old. Its only redeeming quality was the large window on one side. It overlooked the field. Everybody wanted a window seat. To sit in the unsubdued light of the morning. Escape the headache of that day’s announcements. That day everyone had claimed those seats. One boy sat back in his chair, an unopened textbook on his desk. The girl behind him ran her fingers through her hair. A smaller boy with glasses stuck his gum on the frame of the desk. Child A placed herself at the other side of the room closer to the door which also had a window. This window was much smaller. It only looked onto the hallway. Mr. Jones was perched at his desk, hidden behind a screen. He tapped away at its keys. He pointed to the Tannoy in the top right corner.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag," they chorused.

Child A didn’t want to join in. Child A wanted to look out the window. Child A wanted to hurt her brother.

She looked up at the clock. She studied the second-hand ticking between the two and the three. She counted on her fingers. Quarter past nine.

"One nation under God, indi-"

The whole place fell quiet. At first Child A couldn't figure out what the silence was. Seconds passed, and the sound came. It cracked into the air like thunder without the supremacy of a storm. The boy next to her in a white sweatshirt twisted his body to the direction of the door. He moved too slowly for anything to be normal. Child A held her breath in anticipation and listened. She heard the cool air whispering through the ventilation grilles. The low hum of the light bulbs in rows across the ceiling. The episodic pops of the sink's water heater at the back of the room. Her prickled skin would not relax. The sound came once more. Louder. Closer.

Under her desk it seemed quieter. She thought about her brother. Their car ride to Idaho:

"Did you know one of the most susceptible parts to the human body is the neck?" He closed his book.

Child A shook her head. At the time she had been picking off flecks of her nail varnish.

"Yeah, it’s got all the nerves in it that connect your body to your brain plus all your major blood vessels."

He had smiled. She had smiled back.

She hoped that right now he’d be under a desk too. Mr. Jones turned off the lights. Child A locked her hands behind her neck and made sure her elbows kissed. Her clothing was wet. She caught the eyes of the boy in the white sweatshirt. He too hid under his desk. She’d never seen eyes so wide. He jumped with the sound of another bang and winced. He rubbed the back of his sore head. Gum from the desk was tangled in his hair.

"Can you hear anything?" she mouthed.

The boy placed his finger on his lips. She tried to glance round the room. His desk obstructed her view. She noticed that he rocked a little as he hugged his knees.

"I forgot to say good morning to my Mom," he whispered.

Child A didn’t answer.

Child B

The city was a skeleton, stripped of everything. A barren wasteland. All that remained from its former life was a dozen concrete buildings. Each of them damaged beyond repair. Everyone knew the piles of rubble and debris were graveyards for the unburied dead. Child B noticed that today the roads looked even emptier. Emptier than yesterday. No food vendors. No buggies. No women wearing bright coloured clothes. No handmade goods from farm carts and wicker baskets. The bloodied carcass of a camel, meat hook through its nose, swung with the wind outside the butchers. Child B sat amongst the emptiness. He traced his finger through the cold dust that settled on every surface. He tried to picture the face of his father and drew it on the side of the road.

"What are you doing?" A little girl stopped her game of dollies. She peered over his shoulder.

"Drawing my Abee."

"What about your Ummah?"

Child B didn't answer. He didn't need to draw his mother. She was still here.

The little girl sat beside him and folded her dolls between her legs. She’d made herself a new game. Throwing empty gun shells into the broken shop front. Five points if you hit the sign above the door. Ten points if you get it through the window. Child B joined her. A few more children followed.

"Look at that, I’ve hit the sign three times."

"Well I’ve had two through the window."

"Double points if you knock the sign down."

Another blast came like the prelude to a well-known song. The deafening sound rolled around the city and echoed off into the surrounding hills. The small girl cheered as she hit the sign for the third time. It wasn’t until then that Child B had noticed. Little girls didn’t cry anymore. Out on the rolling skyline, about thirty miles away, Child B saw the plane. Another yellow and blue one lacing up the sky. It circled twice before doubling back towards them. Child B thought about what it would be like to fly. He wondered if his home would look any better from all the way up there. An older boy and his brother chased each other round. They spread their arms out like the plane. Both imitated the sound of its engine and deliberately collided with each other. The little girl giggled and applauded their performance.

"Why don’t you be a plane too?" She turned to Child B.

"I will do. I just want to watch this one. I like planes."

"I like dollies." She picked hers up and nursed them. Child B noticed one doll was missing the lower part of its leg.

An instant later there was a flare of light. It shot up into the gathering dust and ignited. Child B’s eyes began to burn. He wanted to look away. Fire belched upwards and over the nearby buildings. Smoke rings floated just after it, increasing in size as the fire rose. It took everything in its path. The heat was oppressive. Even from where they were standing.

"What are you doing? Get inside," his mother yelled at him through the broken window of their apartment block. A shift of wind brought the smoke and ash their way. It rained down into their eyes and hair. Child B clamped his t-shirt to his mouth and ran.

"Ummah?"

He could no longer see their apartment block.

"Ummah!"

"Ummah! Where are you?"

Child B stopped running. Child B couldn't breathe. Child B coughed to try find his breath. His lungs began to burn. Only the odd small gasp escaped his throat. The desperation to breathe overcame him. Why couldn't he breathe? Child B clawed at his own neck and squeezed. Everything looked darker. Like blurred shapes moving slowly. Child B’s face hit the floor. He could no longer hear the ringing in his ears.

Right next to him laid the porcelain doll. The one with the missing lower leg. A fraction of its face was gone. The right side of her brow caved in. Her arms were scratched and battered. Child B could have sworn that her white lips were red before. Her head lolled to one side. Child B saw that whatever love had seeped into that doll now leached out like blood on the side of the road. He reached out to touch her cold tea pot skin. It went with his own.

Child C

The roundabout stood still. Flecks of gloss from its frame peeled to ground. The ground of moss and weeds and dirt. Used needles lay amongst the foliage, invisible to most. Still able to pierce the everyday light-weight sole of a shoe. One swing set missed its partner. It tilted alone with the breeze. An abandoned pushchair laid wheels up in the bushes. The entire place echoed old laughter. There was once an effort to reclaim the place. The more elite of the city planted flowers in colour themes. They picked rubbish out of the pond. It didn't last very long. Child C studied the names scrawled across the face of the slide. Tags from Rino, Teko, Grillz and Zerm. Zuk and Nozer and MG. Child C wondered who these people were. Had she ever seen them here? How would she ever know? She thought about writing her own name. Then she decided against it.

"I knew I’d find you here."

Child C turned to face the older girl. She was sat on the bench behind her. One side of the bench was rusty. The older girl had chosen the cleanest side to sit on. She patted the seat beside her.

"What happened to you last night?"

Child C sat next to the girl and lit a cigarette.

"We were just having a laugh. Why did you leave?" Child C tucked her feet beneath her. Anything to avoid touching the ground.

"I was tired," she replied pulling at her damaged jeans.

"You should have said." The older girl also lit a cigarette.

It was quiet. Only the odd road sweeper or a.m. factory worker rushed by. The pair stared out into the morning sky. Blues and pinks and yellow all blurred together. The soft rays of the sun warmed Child C’s cheeks. She thought about how the sky remained beautiful, even in this place.

Last night the music had been too loud. It made Child C’s skin tingle. She couldn't make out what anyone was saying. Still their laughter rang in her ears. She had no choice but to join in. Her new friend was watching her. His eyes followed her every move. He gave her cigarettes. Smiled when she took her first drag. He told her to drink. Laughed when she couldn't stand. He held her hand. Made her sit on his dirty mattress. He stroked her cheek with the back of his finger.

"I'm meeting them again tonight. Want to join?" The older girl asked.

Child C’s attention refused to leave the sky.

"I’ll tell them you’re coming." The older girl got up to leave. Child C’s eyes did not follow her.

"They’re our friends, Child C. Friends do things for each other. Remember that."

The older girl left. It was early. Child C was alone. She thought about returning to her bed. But here the rusting bench felt safer. More comfortable. She pressed her forehead against the metal. It smelt like old pennies. She picked at the rust. It crumbled between her fingertips. Her hands and fingernails were dirty. Stained by muck and smudged mascara and cigarette smoke. Child C looked dirty. Child C felt dirty. She looked at her hands and cried once more. Perhaps this time her tears would clean them.

After a while she relayed what the older girl had said. Friends did do things for each other. Her new friend gave her nice things. No one else had ever given her nice things. She recalled the first present he’d bought her:

"They’re friendship bracelets. Matching chains with a handcuff charm. His and hers. See?"

"Why handcuffs?"

"It means locked in love."

"What? Do you love me?"

"Yeah. Course I do. Look pink for you, brown for me. Let me put yours on you."

He’d placed the chain around her wrist. She held his bracelet and opened the clasp.

"Let me put yours on for you."

"No, it’s okay."

His eyes had been kind then. They had made her happy. Not like the ones that haunted her now. Those angry eyes. Last night they were dead inside when he towered over her. Rigid, cold, hard, painful. It hurt Child C a lot. She closed her eyes. Scrunched them up hard. She tried to think of something else. She tried to forget her pain. It would not finish.

Doomed

D is for Doomed.

Definition of Doomed:

To have an unfortunate inevitable outcome. Ill-fated. Predestined for certain death. Destruction. Caused to have an unhappy, unavoidable outcome.

By definition we were Doomed. We innocently inherited an inescapable fate. There was nothing we could do.

A is for Armed.

B is for Bombing.

C is for Consent.

A is for Attacked.

B is for Bombardment.

C is for Control.

A is for America. A country that cares more about guns than its own children. A place where young people don’t feel safe at school.

B is for Bashar al-Assad. A president who doesn't care for his people. A man whose government kills children.

C is for Council. An authority that ignored its most vulnerable. A board that allowed its children to be groomed and abused.

A is for Adaline. Aged fourteen. Florida.

B is for Baakir. Aged nine. Douma.

C is for Chloe. Aged twelve. Rotherham.

But we're just letters and numbers to you.