Freedom Footsteps
Challenge Name: Your POV
Title: Footsteps
Rating: PG
Word Count (optional): 351
Author's Notes (optional): This is my family’s heritage. I did not think I was going to be able to write for this challenge, but as the voting hasn’t been posted yet, I stole some time just now.
You hear the footsteps, skipping, running, limping. Mostly limping. A few feeble sounds reach your ears and you can’t decide if they’re joyful or terrified. You weren’t allowed to make a sound, were you? You weren’t even allowed to talk.
The screeching rip of metal being shoved aside slams into your ears and you cringe. The sudden sliver of white light blinds you; it sears your eyes but you can’t get away from it. Then hands touch you, strong hands, soldier hands, yanking you up off of the filthy floor. It’s your time now. You know it’s your time. Under your stale, choking breath you whisper a last prayer to the rhythm of his footsteps.
Your eyes blink open and shut, open and shut as he carries you out into the sterile daytime. The shrunken face of death stares out at you from the empty gazes of your brothers. They’re all running. At least, they’re all trying to run. Where are they going? The soldier carrying you trips, then steadies himself, and you feel the jolt burn up your spine. He sets you down in the back of a truck filled with soldiers. They stare at you in sick horror. One of them wraps you in a thick wool blanket. It’s an olive green color. You haven’t seen anything green in months.
One of them is talking to you, but you don’t understand what he’s saying. You’re too tired to figure out what language it is. The soldier sitting across from you touches your twig-like leg and smiles. He smiles, and says in perfect German, “We are Americans; we are here to help you. The war is over now. Just rest.”
You are confused, but too tired to process any more. The roar of the truck’s engine starting drowns the erratic sound of footsteps out and you close your eyes. A prayer barely makes it out of your cracked lips. You don’t say the word “Freedom,” or even think it. You only glimpse a tattered yellow star sewn onto the soldier’s jacket, right above his heart, before you slip into unconsciousness.
Title: Footsteps
Rating: PG
Word Count (optional): 351
Author's Notes (optional): This is my family’s heritage. I did not think I was going to be able to write for this challenge, but as the voting hasn’t been posted yet, I stole some time just now.
You hear the footsteps, skipping, running, limping. Mostly limping. A few feeble sounds reach your ears and you can’t decide if they’re joyful or terrified. You weren’t allowed to make a sound, were you? You weren’t even allowed to talk.
The screeching rip of metal being shoved aside slams into your ears and you cringe. The sudden sliver of white light blinds you; it sears your eyes but you can’t get away from it. Then hands touch you, strong hands, soldier hands, yanking you up off of the filthy floor. It’s your time now. You know it’s your time. Under your stale, choking breath you whisper a last prayer to the rhythm of his footsteps.
Your eyes blink open and shut, open and shut as he carries you out into the sterile daytime. The shrunken face of death stares out at you from the empty gazes of your brothers. They’re all running. At least, they’re all trying to run. Where are they going? The soldier carrying you trips, then steadies himself, and you feel the jolt burn up your spine. He sets you down in the back of a truck filled with soldiers. They stare at you in sick horror. One of them wraps you in a thick wool blanket. It’s an olive green color. You haven’t seen anything green in months.
One of them is talking to you, but you don’t understand what he’s saying. You’re too tired to figure out what language it is. The soldier sitting across from you touches your twig-like leg and smiles. He smiles, and says in perfect German, “We are Americans; we are here to help you. The war is over now. Just rest.”
You are confused, but too tired to process any more. The roar of the truck’s engine starting drowns the erratic sound of footsteps out and you close your eyes. A prayer barely makes it out of your cracked lips. You don’t say the word “Freedom,” or even think it. You only glimpse a tattered yellow star sewn onto the soldier’s jacket, right above his heart, before you slip into unconsciousness.