Every time world powers declare war, they outline outrageously justifiable reasons. Their aim is glorious. The path becomes righteous, like treasures exhumed from a dead man's grave. The truth is, war is the spouse of holocaust. Genocides and democides are their offsprings. Well, that is what granny Rose taught me. So, when a deafening blast was heard in the city after weeks of tension, the look on our faces mumbled — they're killing us.

Lucy, a high school friend called moments later. She was worried. Everyone heard we have been hit. 

That evening, we escaped our homes with only our lives. The grandeur of my father's mansion was faded completely. 

The ashes from the explosion, were homes that once held the touch of love, and family rites. In my case, it was more of my conflicts with my parents.

As daddy drove away from the city, Mom wrapped her hands around my little brother and I. Her lips moved with incoherent prayers. In a minute, I had gone from being grounded, to a damsel.

" Will there be school tomorrow? Its my friend's birthday." Nicholas pressed against her chest.

Mom looked at me and her eyes turned a well.

" Come, Nicholas." I said, and took him from her. I explained to him he would attend his friend's next birthday, but not the one tomorrow. He trusted me enough to lighten up. My parents were grateful but I couldn't meet their eyes. Not after my rebellion.

Everyday of the last five years into my teen, I felt hated by them. Their preference of Nicholas over me was obvious. It was one week of grounding after another. However, the same man who imposed those rules like a certain president and his harsh tariffs, swooped me out of the bed the minute he heard the blast. 

We arrived the embassy, and he led us inside. " You all will be safe here. Patricia, settle down with your mother and take care of your brother." He commanded and turned on his heels. He wanted to get supplies.

Many more arrived the embassy until it was overcrowded. I waited for my father, but he didn't return. When we saw his car on the news, abandoned besides a blast site. Hope left our bones.

I wanted to say I was sorry. I would change to the little girl he raised. No more night parties and being rude. 

The lives of families, loved ones, became mere numbers. I unconsciously traced my father's name to one of those numbers.

Two weeks later, barely recognisable, father returned the supplies. “ Sorry, I'm late.”

" No, you are not." I cried in his arms. When the sound of the blast was lost on our ears, and we made it back safely. The news presented the death toll. I was thankful my father's name hadn't faded behind a number. 

Nevertheless, I never stopped wondering about those who died. The count. The figures. Those children I saw. The people who have been in love and were loved.

Grandma Rose was right. War is no different from a mindless massacre of the innocent. A country is reduced to rubbles because their president had a fallout with another. Those presidents hardly die, but the citizens pay with their lives.