Silent Night

Molly McDaniel

Bombs dropped. Buildings collapsed. People died.

So many people died.

It had been a normal December evening. The city bustled with light and music. People dashed to stores, making last minute purchases for the holidays only a week away. Decorations hung from storefronts and rooftops. Paper snowflakes adorned the windows of school buildings closed for vacation and churches open for mass. The cold pulled clouds from the lips of carolers as they sang merry melodies.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.

The sky lit up.

The night was not silent.

Screams echo through the rubble, family and friends digging through splintered glass and wood. Blood runs from arms and legs and heads. Gray snow bleeds, seeping red through the streets. Dogs bark and paw at what once were their owners, now kindling for rapidly spreading flames. Flames that lick at gas canisters, causing a string of smaller explosions across the city.

Round yon virgin, Mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild.

Police cars careened through crumbled avenues. Their sirens match the wailing of children. Little dropped hats and gloves lay on the snow covered playgrounds, remnants of tiny ones being scooped up and run by parental arms. Not far enough. Instead of safety, there lay shocked bodies eternally grasping each other in fear.

Sleep in heavenly peace

Two days later the government sends in relief crews. They’re spread thin across the country, an attack well planned out by an opposing force. 

There’s no housing. Instead people cram into whatever buildings they can find. School gyms are filled with mats and blankets. City hall and holy centers pass out whatever food they can. People line up messily to talk with officials. To beg them to find missing family members. Most of the time, they’ve already been found, leaving spouses and parents and children to cry out with grief.

In a separate area from the survivors are rows and rows of figures under white sheets. Some went quickly, killed by the initial blast and shockwave. Others were not so lucky, having spent hours trapped under crushing weight or finally succumbing to injury.

Christmas day came bathed in red. The only gifts left to those alive: two words which would never be said the same way again.

Happy Holidays. 

The carolers sang on.

Sleep in heavenly peace.