An Immigrant: A Short Story

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When I was an 8 year old boy I used to hide in the fatigued comfort of my mother’s cloak, fearing the higher powers. Our village was innocent and plain, but I loved my life and was thankful each day for having the bare necessities of life with a caring mother and the few friends whom I cherished. 15 years ago today my mother helped me escape to another city. 15 years ago today a war started between two statuses. The lower class, and the upper class. As an infant I remember hearing words of a rebellion and blaspheming of the rich. Never truly understanding the conversations between my seniors, nor the conditions in which I lived compared to that of the richer folk, I never put much thought into protesting for my human rights. Mainly, because…show more content…
The first lot of troops were sent out. The first piercing screeches of terror were heard. And my mother. Her face. Her mournful, heartbroken face. My mother was the first and last memories I have of that retched place. Her smiling eyes and gentle caresses that got me through the day as a youngster, and then her desperate movements to keep me alive and as far from the battle that unfolded behind her as possible. As she carried me away to the export docks, I saw tiny boats crammed with children around my age, frozen in confusion or in tears from being separated from their parents. I looked back at my mother and her expression eluded determination. Then, gambling the chances of keeping my last string of composure, I turned my head gradually, glancing back at my home. Not thinking this would be the last time I saw the sky as beautifully blue, nor an abundance of life in the streets, soaring in the air or planted in the fresh soil of the ground. I heard only bit and pieces of discussion to indicate what was going on, “—attacked earlier than we anticipated, we weren’t thoroughly ready for—” “—child will be transported to safety, Ma’am, don’t

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