This piece was influenced by news stories, and a drawing given to me by a lecturer. I am hoping to progress with it, yet am feeling a little uninspired, so am hoping for feedback to help that along.

Glancing out of the window I noticed it was raining again. Puddles reflected the rundown buildings of this neglected suburban town. I sighed and pulled my shawl around my head, closing my eyes praying that when I opened them this would all be a nightmare.

The time was 8.07am, time to rush the children off to school. Not the easiest task when you have to walk through two miles of mud, rain and soldiers’ with firearms to get them there. I know they hate going, they get bullied, but I try to reassure them that we will be out of here soon when daddy and I earn enough money. Sometimes I wonder if they know that I’m clinging to a dream that will never come true.
 As we rush across the muddied pavements I try and shelter the girls as much as possible from the driving rain, but it’s no use when all we have to protect ourselves are thin shawls. The weather is so brutal, and I notice the girls shivering. I unwrap my shawl from my head and pull them close to me covering them both as best I can, but I knew they would catch a cold or worse. As we walk I see soldiers wrapped up in their overcoats and hats and I feel like screaming at them. They just watch as we struggle on, cocking their guns if we stop for too long. 
 
As we reach the town a distinct smell hits our noses, it’s a mixture of waste from other houses and animals. The town couldn’t run without the help of horses and goat’s, however the mess they leave in the streets lingers for weeks. I look around and lower my head against the icy wind. I look at my girls and wonder what I did wrong to end up bringing them up in a place like this. I bend down and hug them before I send them into school. As I wave them off I realise that today could be the day that I never see them again. I run towards them and shower them with kisses. As they walk off again I take a deep breath and look at the sky, not caring that the rain is stinging my eyes. The urge to run after my babies again, and cradle them all day, protecting them from the evils of the world, is still strong, but I resist and turn away. A tear rolls down my cheek and I head towards the market. 
 
I place my hand in my pocket and pull out the last of our weekly money, handing it over for a basket of food of very poor quality. It should last us a week, but in these conditions it will probably go rotten after a few days. I sigh and pull the basket up onto my head where it rests uncomfortably for the journey home. This is the kind of place where no one offers to help. No one cares. 
 
On my arrival back at our house I see my husband standing at the window. He looks damp, miserable, and yet he still raises his hand in a limp wave and attempts a smile when he sees me. He wanders out to help me, the rain ceases for a while, but my clothes are still clinging to me and dripping onto my sandaled feet. He effortlessly takes the basket under one arm and pulls me close with the other one, kissing my wet matted hair. My shawl has long since fallen around my shoulders, wet and heavy, adding to the weight of my worries.

Later that night, as we all tucked up in bed as best we could, I found it increasingly difficult to fall asleep. Our windows and doors could not be closed properly and the temperature had plummeted. There were people rioting in the streets outside, and the loud explosions of cars being set alight kept startling the children from sleep. I rose from my bed and stood at the window pulling a sheet around me. Flames spread across the street and people were smashing windows. Fights had broken out between soldiers and civilians, and I could hear the screams of wives who had to watch their husbands get shot right in front of them. I felt my husbands strong arms wrap around me. We looked into each other’s eyes and then out onto the streets. He whispered in my ear that we would get out of here as soon as possible before war broke out. Suddenly there was a loud crash as our front door came down. I began to panic and my husband was on guard, he had dived across to room to grab his knife. I heard footsteps on our stone floor. They had to be a soldiers as the steps were heavy, the sound of boots. I broke free from my husband’s protective grip and dashed to the children. I stood in the doorway, frozen. Over their bed stood the silhouette of a heavily built man holding a gun. My breathing quickened as I thought of a way to try and get my children out safely. Amazingly they were asleep which I was grateful for. I didn’t want them to get alarmed at this stranger in our house. I whispered to the soldier, asking him what he wanted with us. His gun cocked and I heard the barrel crack. He was ready to shoot. He faced me and I steadied myself against the doorframe. My heart was caught in my throat and I was grateful to hear my husband’s footsteps behind me. He didn’t stop at the doorway however; he marched right up to the soldier and grasped his wrist. There was a cry and the gun fell to the floor with a loud bang. I felt a sharp pain in my thigh and stumbled to the floor. I felt dizzy, the room was spinning, and a wave of nausea swept over me. I placed my hand over the burning pain and felt a sticky, wet substance. I was bleeding. I looked down, and through blurred eyes saw that the bulled from the gun had grazed my flesh. In the distance I heard my husband and the soldier fighting, and then suddenly heard my babies crying. I slumped against the wall calling out to them, telling them to get out. I felt their arms wrap tightly around me holding on for dear life. They hid as best they could, and then everything went dark. 
 
When I opened my eyes again I was in a bed, but it wasn’t mine. I knew I had been to this place before; the smell was familiar. I glanced around and saw my husband and children sitting nearby drinking warm drinks around a fire. My heard fluttered when I realised that they were safe, however my husband was bleeding from his attack. I coughed and asked where we were, and was shocked that I didn’t recognise my own voice. We had escaped the soldiers, and my family had carried me to our neighbours who had hidden us all in their cellar. We had been down here for a full day already and would be hiding for much longer still. Our neighbours had just joined us in hiding, as they had to gather some supplies. My wound had been treated but I was still at risk from infections and so we had to stay here for as long as possible before running to our next point of refuge. My family and our neighbours had all been taking turns watching the outside world, and occasionally running for more supplies. It was official, we were at war and we were right in the heart of it.