I remember being frantically awoken by my sister the next morning. I had overslept, and Saul was about to leave. Hanna was teary-eyed and sniffling, so she must have already said her goodbye. I hadn’t though. I leapt out of bed and rushed to the window—he was getting into the back of the military lorry, his hold-all slung over his uniformed shoulder. He looked back once, back towards me, towards the innocence he was leaving behind, before disappearing inside.
I wasn’t going to make it in time.
With my heart in my throat, I pushed past Hanna, shouting at her for not waking me up earlier, and sprinted down the stairs, missing the last two steps and falling to the ground. My knee struck the hardwood and pain filled me, but I scrambled up and dashed through the front door anyway:
His family and my parents and Ralf and Erich and Anja were waving and the jeep was trundling away.
“Saul! Saul, come back!” I screamed. The lorry didn’t listen, though. It just sped up as I hurdled down the road after it. For a brief moment, I spotted my best friend as well as several other young men peering out the back, and this made me run even faster, run until my lungs felt as if they were being wrung out.
“Sara?” I heard him say. But the automobile was speeding now, growing father and farther away from me.
“Saul, please! Saul! Saul! You have to come home!” My voice was a shriek now, a soprano of desperation as the lorry pulled away, growing smaller until it vanished upon the horizon. I ran a couple more yards, but before I could get any farther, I tripped over a pothole and crashed to the dirt. My elbows yielded to the gravel and began bleeding, but instead of crying I slammed my fist on the ground and gritted my teeth, pressing my forehead into the gravel.
art, writing (c) me