Naima Garcia
April 1915, it’s 5 PM, gas overtaking the air pays my nostrils a bitter visit as the clouds of toxicity begin to knot up within my lungs. It’s them, the Germans. Their troops are full and prepared to shred nations apart, their sights set high on Ypres. Heavy weight pours into my chest. It’s no secret that within just a couple minutes, I’ll be seeing the light soon, the sweet afterlife, wherever that shall lead me to cross.
They demand control over their desired high grounds, so a poisonous bomb would make the perfect vicious strike. Whatever it takes to grant them access to both the east and south areas of Ypres in western Belgium, they have no problem going ballistic with. Not a single dust of mercy resided within their veins.
My soul ascends from my body with every rapid wave of bombs pouring their way through the roof, outside the window, throughout the neighborhood.
Ypres had been through plenty, we’d been through more than enough. The Germans and their allied forces had attempted to savagely possess our city a year prior.
They were filled with fiery desire; to take over our most prized, advantageous spots we had on the North Coast. Little did I know, that that incident would seem nearly as minor as spilt milk compared to the gruesome, earth-shaking hell that was to make its way to Ypres. I knew since the past year or two, that Ypres would never be the same glistening, tourist attraction it had been before, but would instead become a breeding ground for death, blood, gas and despair-induced civilians.
The fruity scent of the lavenders would be replaced by the putrid odor of decaying bodies. But most importantly, the sun, the mark of widespread joy and laughter, would be long gone. It’ll never rise again if the light of tomorrow never appears.