HAND OF GOD

Isabelle Mason

Everything is gone.
        The swing in the backyard that had only ever attempted to reach the skies once after we’d bought it is gone. After Johnny broke his leg by jumping from its apex, it never saw flight again. Now, it’s a tangle of metal and regret.
        Gone are the neat displays of flowers that my dad had spent years trying to perfect. Though he could never get the daisies right.
        Every year, one patch of flowers refused to bloom, whilst the rest grew in unbelievable colours. Mum always hated that bland patch of the bed where the flowers had died or refused to take life. Dad always told her to wait.
        ‘They’ll bloom soon,’ he had said.
        They never did.
        I couldn’t recognise my room. The purple walls are caved in and the carpeted floor beneath is ripped in two. Yet the portion of floor where I had spilt some nail polish when I was nine remains.
        My brother’s room is non-existent. Vanished from the world in the blink of an eye. The confusing array of blue and black that I had always despised is gone. I hate to admit that I will miss it.
        The rest of the town is much the same, ripped apart in an angry storm of vengeance and hunger. The hand of God. It punched through the town with little remorse, making sure that nothing remained but dust and tears.
        As I stepped upon the wounded remains of my home, the smell of burnt wood and petrichor infected the air into a pungent stench. Not even the smell of my father’s roses could lessen the effect.
        After all, everything is gone.
        Everything is in ruins. A shattered image of what life once was. A world ripped apart in an instant.
        But I’m not ready for it to be put back together again. Not until I find my family.