Every day I risk my life, but the feeling of saving other people warms my heart like hot coca in the dead of winter. Every day is a new adventure, a new struggle. Fun is hardly the word for what I do, hardly the word for my everyday life. Words aren’t the description; you don’t know what you are getting into until you are there.
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I am Damien Sweetnam. Every day I struggle to live, every day I struggle to be. My family is proud of me, even though most are not around. I was 16 when it happened. It had been a year since we moved from France to America, and it was a fantasy to us. When we lived in France we had barely enough money to live, but once we moved here, we began to live a life of luxury. My mother wanted to stay back when we left, for she had family in France. Her mother was sick, as was her father. Father felt horrid leaving her, but he had been offered a well paying job at the University near us, as a Professor. When we left Mother told my brother and I that she was proud of us, and wanted us to go to America to take care of father, because she was afraid he could not do so himself. A few months after living in America, my older brother, Gerard, got a job as a policeman. He loved his job, and on days that I didn’t have school he would take me with him, and maybe even let me go patrolling with him.
November 11th was one of those days. It was my 16th birthday, so Father said I could go anywhere I wanted.
I wanted to go patrolling with Gerard.
Father was ok with it, even though they both knew it was danger for me to be there, for if anything happened, I could be in a situation where I may be unable to protect myself. But other than that I loved it; I loved spending time with my brother.
It was cold November night. My brother and I were on patrol, and there was hardly anything going on. It seemed to be one of those days where everyone was living in harmony. Well, that was until he got a call. Suddenly we were moving, sirens screaming and lights flashing. I sat there in pure terror, wondering what would happen. He said that he didn’t know, but all the info he had was that we needed to go to The University; dads building. Then he said this “Whatever happens; if anything; stay in the car. You will be safe. This is my job. I do this for a living...stay here.” We had arrived there and he jumped out.
The scenes were gruesome. The people were psychotic. And on the tragic night of November 11th, I saw father shot to death.
8 years later
I picked up the little boy, and ran to avoid the worst of the attack it was easy to carry him because he weighed hardly anything. I ran into the shelter and placed him onto one of the medical beds, where a nurse began to asses him. I spoke to her briefly, and then looked down at the small boy.
He had the body of an 11year old, but his facial features said that he was about 14. His face was smothered in dirt, and his defined jaw was covered in scars and scratches. His red hair was matted, and his arms were bloody with scars and gashes. The nurse began to peel his bloody shirt of his body, and the boy began to wake up.
“Ma?” He looked scared, frightened as he opened his beautiful brown eyes, and began to search the tent for people we would call friends and family. He looked intimidated by the sight of the tent, the soldiers, the people and the bandages that were surrounding him.
We heard his world exploding, and then I looked up to see several buildings in the distance being reduced to ashes by bombs and fires. The boy winced and began to cry, and I went over and took him in my arms and tried to comfort him. Sometimes that will be the only thing we can do.
“Where am i? What is going on?” said the boy. His fluency in English surprised us all, and we didn’t realize he could understand us. “I-I remember being home. Then someone came in..men…they took my family. Why did they take my family? I was hiding. Now I remember. I was hiding. Not letting them find me. What happened?”
The boy looked up at me as if I knew all the answers. “You can trust us. We won’t hurt you. What is your name?” I asked the boy.
“Where am I?” he asked again, as if he didn’t hear my question.
It's a nit-picky thing, but it makes the story seem more professional.