It has become a habit, a kind of serenity watching the daily 8pm news with my dad. Thus, last Saturday night is not an exception. As the hour hand monotonously moved to the number eight on the clock, with snacks in our hands, we were ready to explore the world together. “It’s so cruel! Life is killed spontaneously like that.” The chemical attack in Syria sent me shiver and while i kept questioning about humanity, dad merely sat there and remained quiet. But the pitiful yet nostalgic sight on his face hinted that remnants of war long gone had been once again awakened in the back of his mind. Indeed, war had left fearful scars on his skin with the biggest one lies solemnly on the belly. When I reached out and stroked that five-inch shriveled mark, I found my heart excruciatingly ached as I murmured to him “You got this wound in the fiery red summer war with America in 1972 right? Can you tell me more about it.”

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        It was a muggy night and dad, who was referred as “little Hoang”, was just a cheerful and naughty seven-year-old boy. As usual, ten o'clock would be the bedtime when all of sudden, he sensed the thundering sound of bombs hitting against the ground and the rattling noise of battle helicopters. He ran quickly to the other room to tell his uncle- Mr.Hai to come down the shelter-pit just to receive a shake of his head, “You hurry up and go hide yourself. I’m too tired.” To us, such explosion noise is petrifying. But back then, It was just the sound of another day in the war zone. Looking at the nonchalant face of Mr.Hai, dad knew it useless to convince him and decided to go down alone.

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        In fact, he kinda liked to be in the pit despite the muddy stale air. Down there, sleep came to him more easily as he found the endless blackness was quite restful, and because he could hold on to his belief that if he didn't see anything, then nothing could harm him at all. That logic worked for a little kid like him every time. However, that summer night was different. Things were so vivid that he couldn't fool himself anymore.

  

        Later on, when dad was sound asleep, one loud rumbling noise startled him off his dream. It was like thousands of monster truck’s motors that roaring in the ears. His instinct alarmed him that this time, the shower of bombs was not far-away but right upon his house. Fear began to thrill up his spine and as he tried to open the eyes, he realized that sand has blocked his vision. Nevertheless, it was not just the sand. There was this scorching hot pain which was slowly but surely burning its way into his stomach that made him go blanked. For a moment, he could even hear the sizzling sound of the metal scalding his flesh. Pain was taking over his mind, his heart was bursting with fright. He wanted to call for help but found it hard even to breathe as fear was eating up all bits of air in his lungs. The surroundings turned blurry, so he bit the lips, urged himself to stay awake because he knew giving up now meant for death. The sickening iron taste of blood spread over his tongue when he pushed all of the air he can possibly grasp into screams for help. Time passed, but none heard him except for the darkness that once was so soothing.

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         “Children lives in peace will never entirely imagine the pain caused by war and dispersal. You are forced to go beyond your limit to survive and sometime, people around you die so often that you wonder when will be your turn.” Dad said with a slight tremble in his voice. He sighed as he remembered the end of his story: The moment he was finally pulled out of those ramshackle remnants, he was heavily suffocating and while looking up, nothing could be recognized anymore but the thin layer of dust. Everything had vanished; his house, his beloved uncle, even his old childish self.