I abruptly wake to hot steamy smoke that fills my nostrils and stings my eyes. The smoke is thick and brutal, swallowing me whole.

I cough repeatedly from the invasion in my chest as it strangles every ounce of air out of my lungs. I could hear the swoosh and cackle of flames, feel the intensity of heat on my skin, but could not see through the smoke. I try to scream, but can’t.

Moments pass, as I crawl and roll around the grass, rubbing at my raw eyes and pleading with God to help me.

Fire flickers from tree to tree, dissolving the fresh leaves and branches that protects me from the rain.

The fire becomes angry, and the boom of its cackle alarms me, screaming at me to get up and run, but my legs are underneath my favorite blanket, squeezed together in sweat, aching and tired.

My arms are sore from sleeping and my lips are peeled and crusted with blood and dirt.

The fiery orange dance among the nature, destroying its life with one flame at a time.

A tree, that stood firm and tall above me, took its last breath before tilting over and letting gravity take its way.

I gather my strength, throwing myself over, my face landing in a heap of dried soil and pursed my lips so I would not have to swallow it. The blanket that is still clamped around my leg begs for its life; but it’s too late.

The tree collapses on its blue cotton body, devouring it until it becomes black and brown, and I watch with wide eyes and sorrow.

The flames seethed its way towards my leg, its tip burning my calf, feeding off my flesh.

I could not  scream, for the pain seared through my body like a surge of heroin, shocking me mute. I quickly patted away the flames and pulled at my leg that laid dead next to the frizzed blanket.

Gawking at the fresh blood charred skin on my ankle,  I cry out, using all of my strength, and then suddenly, I pass out.

This time, I awaken dizzy. My eyelids flutter open, slowly.

The sky was a promising blue, just like my once warm blue cotton blanket I use to warm me from the chilly nights.

All the trees around me were only standing because they were too weak to fall.

They were robbed of their leaves, branches and protection.

I sat up, feeling my ankle beg for mercy for me to stop moving. I slowly pulled myself to my feet, leaning on my unwounded leg and falling against a dead tree. I bend over and picked up my sack, unharmed from the dangerous fire. The forest is brittle and stripped of its beauty.

How was I unharmed from this dangerous fire? While everything amongst me lost its life?

I pull my sack over my shoulder and limp around the desolated forest. I couldn’t remember the way I came through, for it seemed a million years ago since I came here.

I pray that It was a million years ago.

I limp miserably, pain roaring through my ankle, through my leg, and into at my abdomen.  

After an estimated hour, I collapse lifelessly onto the forest’s dry ground, my head crashing onto the dirt. There was no use of continuing.

I am giving up, for I leave myself here to be washed away, just like the forgotten forest that disguises me.

The sky is gray now as I close my eyes.

The next day I lay there, on my back, glancing at the blue and puffy white clouds that float around, shaped as funky figures. They moved swiftly and gracefully, the stillness creating a silent tune. I am upset that I am not up there, in the sky. That I am not dead yet.

“Peaceful isn’t it?”

I close my eyes. I was hearing voices again. The same voices that always interrupt my peaceful moments. The same voices that I try to shut out.

“Everything is so quiet now. Before the fire, the sound of the trees rustling in the wind was actually nice. Now it’s just…..stillness...silence.” I bite my lip and turn to lay on my side. When I open my eyes, the wind kisses my cheeks and whistles in my nose.

I stare at two black boots inches away from my sight. My mind whirls in confusement.

“You aren’t alone, ya’ know? There’s more of us.” The voice was softer this time, speaking low and stern. My throat tightens and itches. Blood pumps inside me, and my face feels hot, even though the wind tries to cool me down.

“I cleaned your wound, you’re lucky that’s all you escaped with, that fire was pretty wicked. Lost three men while they were out  looking for wood.” Talking was the only thing the voice knows.

Tears flooded my eyes.

How could my sanity do this? Create this lively voice and have it communicate with me, so clearly.

“You can look. You should be able to walk around too. Your ankle is fine.” I swallow hard and move my ankle in a small rotation. I felt nothing.

I then open my eyes and start to pull myself up, my heart beating and my breath out of control.

That’s when I saw.

The voice…..it belonged to someone. His smile was bright and radiant, shining heavily in my eyes. “See, you should be fine.” I quickly sprang to my feet and run towards a dead tree, clutching it with my fingertips, and trying to catch my breath. He laughs a little, shoving a stick hard into the dry ground.

“This--” I stutter, surprised to hear my own voice, so faint, after being muted for so long. So small, so...alive. “This isn’t real.” I breathed, pressing my fingers against my temples, and turned my attention back on the boy, who was rudely concentrated on the stick and dry dirt, and not on my frantic confusion.

“You--you aren’t real!” I slap my hands against my face in frustration. He throws the stick as far as he could, and I hear a small thud off in the distance.

“I’m as real as you are.” He replies.

“But- but I…..I thought I was the only one….”

“Not everyone died from the genocide. You weren’t the lucky survivor.” He answered, his voice irritated and mocking. “There’s plenty of us, down the hill. We are settling there until….well, hopefully it’s all over.” He picked up his belongings, which contained a brown sack, a pail filled with brownish liquid and the stick. He started to walk towards the hill afar.

“Coming?” He called to me, and I nodded quickly, glancing around for my sack. He must have saw my concern. “I brought it down already. To the camp. Sorry, I just thought you were dead. We needed the extra supplies.” I shook my head in understanding, even though I didn’t understand. The air felt thick and heavy. My feet pressed against the cool, rough and dry dirt and sharp gray pebbles. I followed him through the dead trees, blackened from ash and soot.

“What will happen if they find us?” I ask, after a few silent minutes go pass. He keeps walking, picking up branches in his huge arms and stuffing some in his brown sack.

“We fight.” He answered confidently. I pout. Not satisfied with his answer.

“No one has a chance fighting against-”

“If we believe it, then we can.” He snaps, staring hard into my eyes. I step back, startled by his quick anger. “You seem like a fighter, a survivor. Someone who can, and will believe.”

“Well I don’t believe.” I whispered, wiping the dry dirt off my foot, even though I knew it was going to come back once I start walking again. “My mother,” I started, choking on the words. “Before she was murdered, she-she told me..to escape Somalia, and flee to Kenya. They have refugee camps there, where my people is held!”

“No!” He shouted, his jaw twitching, and a few sticks falling out of his arms..“You can go all you want to, but i’m staying here. And I’m pretty sure that everyone at the camp will too. We don’t know what is out there. ” He picked up his sticks and started walking. “Or if there are even refugee camps.” I stood there, waiting a bit, thinking if I should follow. Or if I should listen to my mother’s dying wish.

I followed the boy, who was walking down the hill, towards a flat piece of ground, with tall tents and children running around, women chatting to each other in a strange tongue. Everything seemed lively, the people, the sounds. “Walk over to that tent right there, that’s the confirmation center. Where they find your information.” He said, pointing his finger over towards the largest tent amongst the campsite.

“Thank you, for everything.” I express, turning towards him, but he was already gone.

Weeks pass and no sign of the boy, which wasn’t so surprising. The campsite was filled with so many different people. I watch everyone laughing, and celebrating, their happiness radiating off of each other. They were celebrating to another day of living life with loved ones that weren’t killed in the hands and blood of the Somali Militia. Everyday and night seems like a crucial extended pastime. I am reminded that I no longer have my family.

To keep my mind off my suffering, I volunteered to hand out small crumbly bread rolls at dinner to the children. Then the adults, who give me pats on the head or a kiss on the cheek. But one extremely cold and windy day, a man did neither, snatching the crumbly bread roll from my napkin and chomps his teeth inside of it hungrily. He holds up the line. A black fabric covers his face, only letting his eyes show. His eyes are dark brown and as sharp as daggers, stabbing through my skin.  

“Excuse me, sir.” I say, my voice so faint and small, that I didn’t even hear myself say it. There was something off about him, as he stood a few inches away from my face. “Excuse me, sir?” I say again, with more bitterness in my tone.  The man drops his crumbly bread roll, half eaten on the ground and looks at me. “Yes?” He answers, his voice sounding high pitched but familiar.

“You are holding up the line…” I breathe, staring hard at his brown eyes.

“My apologies….to you….and to all the people who take safety to this camp. I am merely sorry.” He reaches into his pocket, and in one swift motion he pulls out a large object. It was black and shiny, glistening in the late evening setting sun.

“Gun!”

The man grabs my arm and pushes me in front of him, placing the gun on my shoulder and aiming it towards the scampering people. My heart stops. He fires the gun, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and I watch as bodies fall. The vibration of the bullet hammering into my shoulder, kicking my heart each time.

After a few minutes of frantic motions, loud shouts and blood curdling screams, everything starts to slow down, time becomes imaginary and I’m floating as the man’s grip on my arm loosens. I’m thrown onto the hard dirt next to a few other scared refugees, who hold their knees up to the chests and rocks back and forth. The man with the gun, stares hard at me again, and then pulls down the fabric that covers his face. Next, he takes off his large hat.

“Remember me?” He asks, crouching low next to me, our faces inches apart. I nod my head, holding back the tears. He cleaned in my wound. I didn’t answer, but turned my face away from his. He grabbed ahold of my jaw, pulling my attention on him. This couldn’t be happening, not to me, not to anyone here.

“Do you…..remember me?” He asked again, but seriousness floated out of his mouth.

I nodded.

“Yes.”