I take a puff of my pipe, all the memories flooding back.
I remember the air raid in the Blitz, the one that killed them. I remember the shell hitting our house before we could escape. I remember the fire and the desperate scrambling over red-hot tiles as I tried to flee, I remember my mother pushing me forward, the smoke was suffocating, choking us. I somehow survived that night, survived the fire that took both my parents' lives. Father was only on leave for a fortnight, he was about to go back to the front.
After the fire was put out, I had to stay in the rubble for days, in the remains of my parents, in the remains of my life. It was to make sure that no one stole any of mother's jewels I suppose, although she didn't really have many. And at that point, I didn't really care.
I take another puff of my old pipe, something that had somehow survived the fire. I was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer just a few hours ago.
If fire took my parents' life, smoke will take mine.
~Linea
