Flash. Bang. [Hiroshima]

[Hiroshima]

In my darkest hours, I could not foresee
How the tide could turn so fast to this degree
_________________________________________

Pika.

Flash.

Hiroshima is first blinded -- not by infinite, unbreachable blackness, nor by the deep red that comes with one's rage. No. He's blinded by bright white.

White. Like fluffy clouds, or perhaps a dove.

Or death. The white blindness lasts merely a moment, one of uncertainty, fear, a creeping sense of terror.

Don.

The whiteness is followed immediately by a deafening explosion, white-hot agony searing over his body. What's happening?! A strangled scream wrenches from his throat; muted by his own horror and pain. Before he knows it, he's on the ground, almost buried beneath rubble and what once was buildings. His home was once a cool river and wide blue skies, but this was destroyed. All Hiroshima wants is to know why. How. Who had the nerve to do this?

He vaguely remembers the state of war the world is in, and that his brother, his Onii-san, is involved as well. The Empire of the Sun, he was now called (if he remembers correctly). From beneath the piles of shattered wood, the Japanese city winces, still scrabbling for a way out of this nightmare.

Bang.

He gasps for air, stubborn, breathless, hoping, but it's dragged-out, halting.
Ragged. He can hear voices raised in panic all around him, in mourning, in questioning.

"Doushite?"

Why?

Hiroshima can barely recognize his own quaking voice, can hardly breathe for the rubble compressing his back and sides. Across a stretch of now-barren land, he can see it: a once-proud, tall building, levelled to dust, to nothingness. The city scrabbles forward, toward the wreckage. He's trapped, though, locked under what he's absolutely certain will be his grave. His vision swims. With every motion, agony sears down his spine.
When he looks to the sky, he can feel his stomach drop and his heart skip a few hurried beats. It's no longer clear, blue, and cloudless. Instead, the heavens seemed to have swallowed themselves up and turned black. His movements become more desperate, more longing. He needs to get free, and now. He licks his lips, tastes blood; heart skipping another beat, he pulls at his bonds, clenching his teeth against the sear of a broken arm.
Hiroshima doesn't know what it's like to die. Dazed, he looks back to the charred earth again, and he knows now. This is death. Not an honourable one, though, he reflects bitterly. One marked by humiliation and despair every step of the way.
Burns, he can sense, cover his body, leaving what he'd been wearing (what remained of a military uniform) in tatters and singed shreds. Long, dark strands of hair are singed, sticking to his face and neck in melted, horrid-smelling clumps. (Smoke, more than likely.)

His breath is slow. He smiles bitterly. I'll be long dead by the time someone gets here, he thinks. We all will be.

Now, though, he can hear rescue teams pattering through the streets, calling for people. For survivors. Hiroshima can only see blurs of their bodies, caught this way. Suddenly, he knows how a rat doomed to die feels. He hears himself make a sound he can't name, aching and all but ready to welcome Death's cold hand at this moment. Over the rubble, his unwounded hand clenches and unclenches with a sort of impatience. The voices become louder, broken Japanese and some English filling his ears. Just as quickly as the loudness hits his eardrums, it fades, halting again. All he can feel, all he can breathe is the smoke, his people's agony and fear mingling with his own.
He closes his eyes and exhales, waiting.

Sanctus Espiritus, is this what we deserve?
Can we break free from chains of neverending agony?
___________________________________________________

A/N: On August 6th, 1945, at approximately 8:15 AM, an American B-29 dropped the nuclear bomb "Little Boy" on the city of Hiroshima in Japan. Some 30% of the population was killed immediately by the blast, with 90% of the doctors and 93% of the nurses either injured or killed.