Dunkirk • H.S

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IMPORTANT: I decided to call the soldiers in the Dunkirk army shooters. If you have any questions please ask and I will be sure to answer :)

And this is not edited, so I'm very sorry for grammar mistakes!

I stab the heavy shovel into the moist dirt, my hands hurting and starting to form blisters from doing it over and over again. Every Time the shovel in my hand hits the ground my sisters face invades my thoughts. I can't help but feel that it was my fault she was found, hidden away in our home under the bed where I told her to hide.

Now that I am outside, trying to clear my head but failing, it all pours down on me. Like a whole ocean decided to empty it's body of living water on top of me. The guilt was like a clump of tar in my hair, warm and sticky, impossible to remove. And I feel sick.

Maybe that's why I've been feeling like I need to throw up, the guilt trying to force it's way into me, trying to make me notice it in the most disturbing ways. And now I do, I notice it, I feel it.

As I dig a hole in the ground, my sister, somewhere, is in this camp because of me. I know I shouldn't feel guilty of this, of them finding her. She would've been found anyways, but telling her to hide under her bed? As if they weren't going to find her there. How pathetic was I to tell her that?

I stab the shovel vigorously into the dirt, mad at myself and every living man in the perimeters of this camp. What the hell has gotten into these people's minds? Kidnapping and bringing girls to a camp and leaving them clueless and beaten is brutal, emotionally and physically.

Why they have us digging holes and picking fruits from trees and plants in the scorching heat with no water is beyond me.

"Don't break your arms there." I turn to see a shooter smirking at me as I dig. The thought of swinging this shovel at this man is so tempting that I felt my arms twitch just thinking of it.

"We can't have water?" I ask, feeling the sweat drip down my face and the anger building it's way out of me.

"You had water this morning, and I didn't say stop digging." He points to the hole I've dug with raised eyebrows.

"Why are we digging holes, anyways?" I ask angrily, gripping the shovel in my hands tighter and taking a small step forwards.

"Just keep digging the damn hole, will you? Stop asking questions." He grouses, coming closer to me.

"I want you to tell me why we're digging holes." I say bravely when he's directly in front of me.

I saw his pupils dilate and his jaw lock in place at my words as he stares at me with a dead expression. I have not one clue why I just said that out loud, but I can feel my muscles tightening, flexing, preparing to be hit upon.

"What the hell did you just say?" He closes the space between us and I turn my head the other way, fear kicking its way into my system.

A girl with brown hair that's cut short stares at me over her shoulder while she picks from an apple tree. The look on her face makes me more angry, the look of pity. The look someone gives you when you're in a hopeless and utterly disconsolate situation.

"I'm sorry," the words jumble from my mouth in a hushed tone. I felt the need to whisper, due to how quiet everything seemed in the moment. Like every noise was blocked out from my hearing and my mind was only focused on what was right in front of me.

I hear the shooter snort and I turn my head to look at him. "You're sorry?" He mocks.

I stare at him and nod my head shortly, my voice seeming to have ran off and hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of my being.