Young Writers Society

What is this? Where am I? I'm in Hell, that's where. This can't be my hometown, where I went to school, and was happy, contented, perhaps even naive child-the way that children should be. I've never really believed in Heaven or Hell, to be honest, but people always told me that it was the worst place ever. Things couldn't get worse than this. They just can't.

I work as a nurse here, in a children's ward. It's torture. The children that enter through the old crumbling door are left maimed, mutilated and broken by the soldiers who come from America and England and who knows where else to fight for their country, for honour. If honour is violating children, leaving their mothers crying over their tiny broken bodies, then they're doing a great job. Why stop there, though? They don't let medical supplies through, to help the most vulnerable in society, who want nothing to do with the fighting and violence-they just want to be kids. Without those supplies, they die. We just can't save them.

What can I say? I don't feel bad or guilty for the emotions that I express to the great unhappiness of so many. They are children. Innocent little beings. Why do this? Why?

Iraq was never perfect, but we got by. Young people had futures to look to. Their futures, for so many of them, lie in ashes. How can this war be for the greater good? How?

I look out the window of the hospital, at the soot and dust polluted morning air. I remember when I would step out into the sunshine, breathing in the deliciously fresh air of early morning. Not anymore. The houses that once stood as proud protectors of their inhabitants lie in ashes, meer rubble, the inhabitants often with them.

Before my shift ends, I go up to the room of a little girl, little Aaliyah. Last week, she was a regular happy, naive child-bless her. Now she's missing her left arm, and part of her face has been burned beyond recognition. For the honour of the soldier's countries. I touch Aaliyah's tiny hand, closing my eyes to the tears that sting my eyelids, that won't give up no matter how had I try to stop them.

Out into the warzone that is my home I now go. The bangs and blasts in the distance aren't that uncommon anymore. Oh please, help us...I silently cry in despair. The emotions that I feel are too big, too much. Nothing can be said to make the sights in those wards OK...nothing can be said. I fall to my knees, surrendering the sob that I have been supressing. I have never felt so alone as I stand in the very depths of Hell.