They were gone. All of them, just like that. Every photograph, every book, every piece of jewellery, and, of course, every person in the house. All lost in a single moment. A single explosion. Thomas never forgave himself for being the only survivor.

If he hadn’t been out that night/If he had just gotten home a few minutes earlier/If he had gone out with his family instead of heading to the bar... they would all be together. This was worse than hell (that’s how he knew he was still alive).

His wife Theresa, son Max and daughter Elena had been stolen from him. And he knew it was his fault. He’d brought this bad karma onto his innocent family. His drinking and other demons had manifested themselves in the form of a metal shell with explosive contents.

He had heard the blast from the bar- through his drunken stupor- but had thought there was no way it could be his street. His house. His family. He couldn’t even bring himself to release the flood of tears, and the only sound he’d made all day had been a strange croaking noise that sounded as if it was coming from far away.

Thomas hadn’t moved from the rubble and ashes that had once been his home. He spent the day crawling around, digging and scratching and praying that he might find something that wasn’t shattered to pieces. No luck. Nothing- no one- had survived. He wiped away sweat and the few tears that escaped, coating himself in grey silt. Darkness fell and he collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke to rustling. Thomas was perfectly camouflaged, but the person’s eyes still found him. Theresa’s eyes still found him.

“Wha- what- how? I-“, Thomas stuttered. He stumbled over to his dead wife.

“Shhh,” something was off. She had never been that gentle. “I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.”

“I thought you were dead. Wait- where are the kids?!” He was beginning to panic.

“Max and Elena are at home. Waiting for you,” she looked like Theresa. Sounded like her too. But she was not his wife. Theresa would’ve called him every curse word in the book and slapped him with her many-ringed hands for making her worry. For not being there to tuck his kids into bed.

“Theresa, we ARE at home,” he lifted a fistful of dust and watched it slip away, for emphasis. Theresa changed. Her features contorted, and her eyes darkened. “Don’t be so silly, this is not our house. Come, let me take you home.” With that, she grabbed onto his wrists.

Before he could even scream, she had dragged Thomas deep into the rubble. And then deeper.

And deeper.

And deeper.