War Zone

I was only in the 1st grade when the whole school was informed of a disasterous bombing at the World Trade Centers on September 11th. At that young of an age, it's sort of difficult to understand the horrors of this dreadful terrorist attack. Heck, I didn't even know what a terrorist was. My whole life, as well as my fellow classmates, went on as usual.
Later that night, I crawled into bed with my worried parents. Their miniscuel television showed the current president sadly announcing that we would be starting a war with a small country called Afghanistan. I hadn't heard of this country, so I wasn't aware of the distance between us. I didn't ask questions, because my parent's were deep in discussion, a concerned look on their faces. I decided to go fall into a deep sleep, I had nothing left to do for tonight.
The next day, I went to school as normal, while everyone was talking about what happened. The day after that, I was strangely kept home from school. I was happily watching some cartoons when my mother strode in, tears streaming down her face. She grasped my hand and led me to the large white front door, where my tearing-up father stood with a red suitcase in his smooth hand.
"I love you, honey. I'll be back as soon as I can." He wept as he hugged me tight.
And with that, he kissed my mother and walked out the door. He took one last longing look at us, got into his car, and pulled out of the driveway.
"Mommy, where is Daddy going?" I asked, confused.
"Daddy is going to fight in the war in Afghanistan." She explained through her sobs.
I may not have know terribly much, but I know the word war. War is where there is fighting and killing often. I could not let him go! I ran out the door to the edge of our property, but by then he was long gone.




2 years later I was a troubled 3rd grader. I had not seen my father for 2 years and I was getting fed up. Mother was terribly sick and the scary doctor said she would die soon unless a medical miracle occurred. And that was very unlikely.
I came home from school one day to a driveway full of cars. I opened the front door to some doctors, our minister, and other people who I wasn't sure of whom they were. Our minister approached me with a sad, withering look on his face.
"She, she's gone, isn't she." I stuttered, bowing my head.
All the minister did was nod his head, give me a sympathetic look, and started talking with the other adults.




I lived with a foster family for about a month. But I couldn't take it anymore. This family could have cared less about me. The man of the house abused me, the amount of bumps and bruises on my body could have made mountain, though the way I hid those pains made a molehill out of that mountain. One day, on the anniversary of the September 11th attacks, I fled from that foster home and snuck onto a plane to Afghanistan. I was on a plane that was landing about 30 football fields away from where my father was located. Sneaking onto the plane took quite some planning. Though, being as miniscuel and petite as I was, I had little problems.


I first found a family that was paying little attention to their surroundings. I strode along with them, making people believe I was apart of the happieness. When they turned and started towards the opposite direction my terminal was, I broke away. From then it was pure hiding skills. I hid behind people, piles of luggage, under tables and chairs, etc. Finally I made it onto the plane. I found a seat next to a foul smelling man in a bright shirt and blue jeans.



How the hell(yes my profanity grew as I grew) could I get to him! I was never a tall child so my tiny little legs would have never have led me to him in time. My father-daughter instincs was rearing it’s ugly head in my beat red face, I knew his time was limited. I started running in a random direction. Little did I know that the direction would lead me straight to trouble.


I was probably running for about two days. Risking my life went unnoticed, my determination reaching higher than the highest mountain. All of a sudden, a foreign hand trapped my mouth closed and with a piercing pain in the back of my head, I was knocked out. When I woke up, I was in an extremely dark, hot, and humid environment. I was tied to a chair, a rough piece of cloth was stuffed in my mouth.


A few candles were then lit. I could see the evil faces of torturers in my path. I was jerked up and out of my chair, being led to a chair directly underneath a fan. Oh crap fled through my mind. I had read about this once, they were about to tie my hands to the fan, hold my feet, and break my spine. I recoiled slightly, only to be given a push forward. Before I could do anything, a gun was to my head, a knife to my throat, and my hands were being tied to the rusty fan. I knew this was the end.


To my greatest delight, the door was suddenly broken down and a group of US soliders invaded the place. I was rushed out of the building and the bright sun blinded me.
“What are you doing here, little girl?” One of them asked, confused.
“The name is Cindy. And I’m here looking for my father.” I explained.
“Well, sweetie-erm-cindy, I dunno if I can help you there.” He sympathized.
“I have to see him! I didn’t come all this way to be sent back home!” I argued.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t.”he rebutled.
I was in no position to argue with him. I silently followed him to where I figured he’d be taking me home. I knew I wouldn’t let him.


He soon stopped to talk to fellow soldier. I seized my chance, sneaking away from the nightmare. When he turned around, I had poofed. I was bolting so quickly I felt as though my feet were catching fire. I soon came to a halt in an obvious war zone.



My god. My surroundings looked a mess. Men, woman, and children's dead bodies were scattered throughout piles and piles of rumble. Screams and shouts pierced the air, drowned out by explosions and gun shots.
I ran yelling "daddy!" but I knew it wouldn't work. I searched and searched until I spotted a solider laying on the ground in the midst of all the commotion. He stirred slightly, and with a closer look I saw it was my father.
"Daddy!" I yelled, pushing my way towards him, kneeling beside him.
"Cindy? Wha, What are you doing here?" he said, weakly. I could tell he was dying. I started weeping.
"Daddy, stay with me! Come on, daddy, you can do it!"
"Sweetie, I'm sorry I, I don't think I can stay in this pain much longer. But I just wanted to tell you, I love you."
"I love you too, daddy." I started to cry harder, I knew this was the end.
He let out a gasp of pain. He pointed to a piece of shrapnel laying nearby.
"No, daddy, I can't."
"Please, Cindy. I can't go on with this pain."
I hesitantly grabbed the shrapnel and held it high over my head. While my dad moaned and groaned with pain, I was in hysterics. But with a loud explosion, my job was completed for me. But I got to go with him.
Within moments, I was peaceful, with my mother, my father, and God learning the meaning of life.



This story is dedicated to the victoms of the September 11th attacks and the troops who are risking their lives for the well-being of the USA.