Chapter: The Night of the Bombing
I remember that night well, the night when, perhaps for the only time, I saw the tiny Fireball being truly afraid.
I had somehow managed to fall asleep. The sea had rumbled through my stomach, keeping me up the last few nights, but this night had come with a reprieve. The breeze was getting cooler all evening, and the starless night lulled me into much needed oblivion.
It couldn’t have been much later, when the tiny Fireball shook me awake.
“Something is happening,” she said, panic in her voice.
“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly wide awake.
“I think we are being bombed,” the tiny Fireball said looking at the dark sky.
I looked at the sky and couldn’t see a thing. If there was someone out there, that was a good sign. We were found and could be saved after all.
Except, I couldn’t see nor hear anyone. I was straining, of course, a desperate being straining long and hard for a glimmer of hope. But all I could see was the dark sky.
I said, “Maybe you had a bad dream.”
She violently shook her head, white in the face.
Then I felt the first bomb land right in the space between us.
It didn’t explode, it splashed.
I wanted to laugh, but in the same breath, as the small raindrop crashed on the raft and sprayed even smaller drops on my feet, I saw a droplet brush against the tiny Fireball. It sizzled and put out a small part of her, as she winced in agony.
I shuddered. It was not going to be just a bombing.
It was going to be an invasion.
I scrambled, looked everywhere on the raft. Something, surely there must be something that could keep us both safe.
I shouted at her to move closer to me, shielding her with my body as I continued searching through our meagre worldly possessions.
Suddenly the night sky was lit up like a Hydrogen bomb had gone off somewhere in the heavens, ready to breathe hellfire upon us.
I was running out of time. I had to think fast.
I grabbed the peanut butter jar, the one holding the last of our drinking water, and without hesitation, I emptied it into the sea.
“Here, quick,” I commanded.
She quickly jumped into the jar, I fastened the lid, and clutched it close to my heart.
That very instant, the bombing began.
I shudder to think what would have happened if I was but a moment late.
Giant raindrops crashed on to our little raft. If I was alone, I would have bathed and rejoiced. Drank my fill and stored as much fresh water as I could. But I had the tiny Fireball with me.
That night, as I was getting drenched, for the first time, I understood the bigger danger we were in. We were floating in the middle of nowhere on a battered raft.
The tiny Fireball was literally a spark, surrounded by the high seas.
A lazy wave, an innocent gust of wind, a well-intentioned backsplash could extinguish and wipe her out forever.
Scared I won’t be able to keep her safe, I found myself shouting at her, “Of all the places you could have landed on this planet, why did you choose my tiny raft?”
She didn’t say a word.
She just slid to the bottom of the peanut butter jar, pulled her knees close and buried her head in them.
The rain and the thunder were deafening. But through it all, I heard her sobbing.
That sound still keeps me up at night.
She was my friend. I would have given my life to save her that night. So why was I being so mean to her?
Why are we sometimes so harsh to the ones we so adore?
(Still reading? Then you'll like the book :)
