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Desperation, immense weariness, and lost hope, made her faltering spech inane. Drowning in the despair of others, she tottered on the brink of her own.
“But the shops would not even open. If they had opened, we might have been able to get the children water. That would have been a start, water. But they didn’t open ... “, her once confident voice trailed off. Her shoulders slumped, her facial muscles lost their usual vibrancy. Her eyes glazed over.
A bloodied leg dangled from the end of the pickup truck next to her, still encased in Nikes with the tag ‘Saigon’, a smeared beach towel emblazoned with a board-rider and ‘ Cap Haitien’ wrapped around its crushed head. She no longer noticed the stench in the air, the buzzing of flies.
Her brow fractured, “The wall still topples. I close my eyes and it topples again!” She stops mid sentence.
