A Kid Named Beirut


Maha Mansour

Blood rivers, broken glass, destroyed buildings, corpses and bodies were all over the street. I wasn’t able to see clearly because of the gray dust puffing into my eyes. Death; its odor was everywhere in which I can smell it in every corner, every street, every step I took. “HELLO? HELLO? Can anybody hear me?! ANYBODY?” I screamed at the top of both my lungs as I sought help from anyone. I was struggling in vain to find a survivor, a hope that I was not left alone. Agitation, trepidation, and fright sneaked up into my legs until they controlled every part of me. Adrenaline flowed, and I felt numb, insensible, and unconscious of my body. “My phone! Where is it?” I cried as I checked my pockets. I felt a sharp metallic object and suddenly realized that a long, sharp, thick piece of glass had pierced my thigh leaving a wide spot of blood on my gray sweatpants! “OMG!” I cried. “How didn’t I feel its presence?”  Suddenly, a young teen ran across from me, glanced at me for a couple of seconds, then continued running leaving me without even paying any attention or care. Then, a woman in her thirties passed me and kept running. After that, people kept coming and running away as if I was nothing. People left me. I found no one to seek help from; no one was there for me. People were busy healing their injuries and failed to notice that I was injured and needed medical care as well. I headed to the nearest hospital, received treatment, and then left immediately.  My heart cracked into a million pieces inside my chest and sorrow grew deeply in my body. At last, in the middle of the crowd, this little orphan felt lonely and isolated.