To actually live to 30, you develop a certain sense for when the air raids will hit.

There’s a more or less standard sequence of events leading up to the Big Bang (it isn’t an exact science): first, a sickening high whine builds up; second, the air begins to tremble; third, long shadows appear then disappear in the window; four, the obvious occurs -

Shit blows up.

Usually you’ve hightailed it by stage 2, but your form is off. There’s been talk about an actual ceasefire (there always is you should’ve known better), the bombings’ eased, people are coming out more. You had high hopes that this year, things would be different.

Hah.

Your present is a sliced cheek, and the smudge left when you wipe the blood a cruel mockery of Mama’s sticky red lipsticked kisses. Surveying the damage, you shakily begin stacking rocks, calling them mama, papa, brother in your head. You count your makeshift candles amongst the dead. It’s easier this way. A dark chuckle (you’re getting too old for this), “Happy birthday to me.”