luck-books

Vincin woke to a loud, incessant cracking and a distant scream. His addled mind couldn’t think. He found himself sitting up in bed, unable to breathe, unable to make sense of his situation. He called out to his mother, but nothing came back except weak, quiet sobbing. Crawling out of bed, he moved towards the door of his small room, his eyes stinging from the smoke gathering at the roof. His mind was on “Mama” when he reached the cramped living area of his family’s house. There was no one—nothing but a smoldering wicker chair and a pile of rubble where the rest of the house should be. Vincin registered none of this as he choked on a lungful of smoke and tears, stepping into the orange glow of the night.