Writing Prompt: start with “This is really not what it looks like…”

Dearest Sis,

This is really not what it looks like.  It’s way worse.  I look around this place, this country we used to call our own and, as bad as it looks physically , it’s way worse on the inside.  Sis, the bombing…. It just never seemed to stop.  It didn’t help that it was in the middle of Christmas celebrations, people were happy and enjoying time with their friends and family.  There always seems to be a sense of hope during the holidays.  Maybe it’s the same hope that still lingers in our bodies, the residual hope of Santa Claus, and the excitement of all our wishes coming true.  Or maybe the hope comes from the sense of wholeness from being in family- the laughs that you know will be shared over wine and Uncle Todd.  We barely got to the holiday season before we were robbed by that hope, Sis.  It all started during our first holiday family dinner- you know that one where we play games and the adults drink too much.  There were just bombs and screams.  No, not screams-shrieks.  Just shrieks.  From Mom and the kids.  But mainly from Mom.  You’re so lucky you weren’t here to hear Mom… It still haunts me when the stillness comes around. 

We all knew that things were getting worse, the country has been in shambles since you left home and nobody has real control over here anymore.. I’m just thankful the bombings have stopped.  And while that is something really grand to be grateful for thats the only reason I can seem to find to use the word ‘grateful’.  I think the worst  part isn’t those who died- even though a lot of people are gone, Sis.  The worst is those of us who are still here.  I am not suicidal or anything, but we’ve just lived through so much and seen and heard what hate looks like, smells like, and sounds like that there is no more hope to scrape for.  We miss you, but we know it’s for the best you weren’t here.  You’re still alive.  You have a life.  And it’s all one piece.  Which is great, Sis, really its great.  I don’t want you to worry the worst is over.  They are sending in peace-keeping troops tomorrow morning.  I hate to end this on such a sour note, but you gotta know sweet Sis… Pa didn’t make it.  He was out getting some butter for the cake, he just wanted some butter and got handed death. I am truly sorry this is the way you had to find out.  We love you, but don’t even bother coming here.  Its not worth it.  I don’t think you’ll be able to get mail back to us, but we know you’re sending your love and worried sick.  Don’t get sick, Sis.  Be grateful for your life and your happiness and your health. 

Much love and forever yours,

Bug

-fiction-

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