SHAKEN
"Where were you for the duration of the earthquake?"
"I was at home."
They were sat across from each other, both seated on plush chairs that seemed to swallow them up. The damask print of the armchairs blended in with the rather dingy room. Day leaked in from the windows. Murky light. Barren, grey, like faint glimmers upon dusty mirrors long succumbed to the trials of time. It melted the shadows that clung to the walls. Manifesting as puddles, like melted silver, on the weathered floorboards beneath their feet. The light revealed the ghosts that danced within its beams, the little dust particles that would otherwise be invisible, like children occupied by their games, but listening, unbeknownst to the adults. Every shred of sound seemed to reverberate throughout the cosy space.
"What were you doing during that moment?" This was asked politely by the reporter, who held her microphone expectantly. Her interviewee could not meet her eyes. Instead, her gaze was pointed down at her lap, where her twisting hands warped and wrinkled the floral fabric of her dress. The camera watched on. An eye. Seeing all, saving all. She seemed to shy away from it all. She seemed to want to glue her lips shut, only speaking minimally, with few and quiet words.
"I was hiding." Said softly. Much like the muteness of the scene.
"I see. What alerted you to the situation?"
"It was a local boy and a member of the rescue crew. They came in, yelling for me."
"While the earthquake was going on?" She asked this incredulously, her head cocked to the side, her arm stretched out to position the microphone closer.
"Yes. It was very dangerous. But they came anyway, and I have to commend them for that."
"What did they say?"
"They-" Here the lady stopped. She seemed to be quivering, like a butterfly perched despite the gusty weather. The silence stretched on. But was broken after a while, by the woman's voice, tender and raw. "I knew it couldn't be good news. They said my children were trapped beneath the school."
"That must've been a very sorrowful day for you."
"It was." Her voice caught in her throat, the last word coming out as a bare croak.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
A sigh. Not airy. Not fleeting. But one drawn from within, heavy and sharp. No one spoke for a moment. The reporter kept her lips curved gently in a small smile. Which she hoped was a welcoming look, serving to comfort the clearly uncomfortable woman. Abruptly, the woman stood from her seat, her leathery hands still clasped together.
"Would any of you like some tea?" she offered. "It's a long story. It'd be better if you get settled down first."
"That won't be necessary. But if you insist."
"I do." With that, the old lady disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes passed. The reporter and the cameraman exchanged some glances, chatting quietly as they waited. She reappeared with a tray set with a teapot and some cups. Steam rose in the crisp air as she poured stream after stream of the boiling liquid into the cups. She gestured to them, as an invitation for her guests to help themselves. No sugar, no milk.
"Thank you for the drinks, madam."
"You're very welcome."
A faint leafy smell perfumed the air. Presumably from the fragrant liquid. The reporter raised her cup to her lips, holding it daintily so as to avoid the heat, taking small and careful sips. As she drank slowly, the woman watched her, her features flat and unreadable. A clink. Cups back on the table. Microphone raised.
"That tea is delicious. Where were we? Right. Would you care to tell me what happened that day?"
"I will." Her words were hesitant and plodding. As if each syllable was infused with the weight of her many years. "I was under the table, sheltering myself from any falling debris or furniture. Then I heard some shouting. When I peeked out, I saw one of the boys from here, and a man, who was part of the rescue crew. They were calling my name urgently. When they found me, they spoke so quickly, and they were so rushed, that at first I couldn't understand them. But then I understood. The school had collapsed. And my children..."
A short gasp, barely noticeable, but accompanied by a serpentine tear.
"My children were buried under the rubble. My elder son, and my younger daughter. They were very young then. Too young. We set off to the school grounds immediately. As we hurried, I saw the ruins of the village around me, with piles of stones and bricks and rising clouds of dust. There were bodies here and there. It was terrifying. I was lucky to be uninjured. The ground was shaking beneath our feet, and with it the ominous sounds of crushing materials and cracking foundations. I could barely breathe, because of all the particles in the air. But at last, we arrived.
"What a horrifying sight it was. I will never forget it for as long as I live. People. People like ants, swarming everywhere, over the hills of the crumbled building. The sound of wailing replacing the bird songs. That boy who came to get me was one of the few to survive. He was away when it happened. I remember I started to cry. The tears obscured my vision, so that all I saw were faces against the bleak surroundings. They led me to an area. And then they said something, something that would and has changed my entire world.
"The rescue man told me they had few people on their crew. Much too little people, so that they couldn't do as much as they wanted to, despite them working as quickly as they could. And he asked me to choose. He could only save one of my children. I had to pick who could live, and who had to be left behind."
Her words drifted off, dissolving into sobs that then grew in intensity. Soon she was hunched over herself, taking in sporadic gasps, her cries filling all crevices with painful sorrow. They started off as gulps. Then she was wailing, unable to speak, to look anyone in the eye, so consumed with the memories and her thoughts. It was grating and jarring, to have the laments intertwined with regret and the strength of the emotions long repressed. Of shouts that melded in with weeps. With a simple motion, the reporter instructed the cameraman to shut off the camera, and he obliged.
"That was fifteen years ago," the reporter began, gently testing the waters. "But of course, it still lives with you every day, doesn't it?"
"I will never forget. I will never forget," the old lady wailed, her cries bordering on yells. "How can I? I will never forget the daughter I lost. There hasn't been a day gone by that I haven't thought of her. When I see my son, I think of her too. I will never forget."
"So you picked your son."
"I did. It was no easy choice. I had no idea who to choose. But I had to do it quickly, lest I lose both of them."
They sat immersed in the sound of the dying cries of the lady. She had reverted to staring back at her lap, clearly ashamed by her behaviour. At last her sobs dwindled down to soft hiccups. Unsure of what to do, the reporter sat still, watching the minuscule movements of the woman. Their cups of tea sat cold and untouched. Silence, once the tears dried. Then she spoke.
"Thank you for going through with this, we really appreciate your participation. But first, I have one last question to ask you."
With a nod and a red rimmed gaze, the lady gestured for the young woman to go on. And she began to speak. Not in the same manner she had asked her other questions in. But gently, almost sadly, with a touch of desperation.
"Why did you pick him over me, mom?"
