The sound of drones overhead drowned Ali in the noise. Some screams were coming from somewhere, but he knew that they weren’t his. He felt something on his face, only to remember that he had his hand on top of his mouth to hold back the screams. He drowned in his thoughts as well. His shirt was soaked with tears, and part of him was thankful that his father had already died, for he would have told him, “Men don’t cry.” Ali needed to cry.

He stared at the limp bodies of his mother and brother as they lay next to each other. A final embrace. His hand left his mouth and joined its twin to hug those who were gone. "Umi", he called for his mother as the tears started dripping inside his gaping mouth. He called for his brother, Mohamed, as his little sister let out screams of her own. He embraced the dead bodies, but he felt like an intruder; he was interrupting this final hug, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Hands snatched at his t-shirt as people tried to pull him away. He felt the rocks under him almost merging with his legs as he pushed himself to the ground, refusing to end this interruption. The rocks were a reminder that even the house was gone, but what is the use of houses if the people who gave them life are no longer here?

Someone mentioned something about God, and Ali screamed louder. He looked through the gap in the ruined ceiling and called for God, “Ya Allah". No reply came either from his mother or from God.

His little sister, Sara, was whimpering beside him. It was the same sight he saw when the IDF killed his father five days ago. This time, his mother and Mohamed weren’t there to weep with them. He counted to three, a number for every dead body. Three now. Two remain, but he felt already dead.

They buried his mother and brother in a grave that wasn’t really a grave. Some dirt on top of them was enough because that was all they had.

“At least Mama and Baba and Mohamed are now together,” Sara said as the two of them sat in front of the makeshift graves. They had no home now, but maybe their home was already gone once their father died.

“Are you sad?” Sara asked when Ali remained lost in his thoughts.

“I’m gone.” He felt that this was a fitting description. He was gone. His body almost felt liquid-like. Maybe if he stayed long enough under the sun, he would truly disappear, but he had Sara to look after. Two remain.

“The three of us will be okay.”

“Three?” he asked as a million thoughts raced through his head. What if his six-year-old sister didn’t accept their mother’s death? What if she thinks that Ali can bring her back?

“Yes, three. I found this under the rubble back at home.” Sara said as she handed him his Messi figurine. He took it with him everywhere, but the shock of the last few hours was enough to erase his entire memory.

He hugged Sara in appreciation as he held in his hands the little figurine that he bought years ago. The colours were fading away just like him.

Ali lay on the ground, letting his entire body feel close to the dead. His hands brought some dirt and put it on top of his chest. He made a little hill, and on top of it, the Messi figurine went. It was only when he looked at Sara that he saw her doing the exact same steps. If he died, would she mimic him too?

Her hill was empty, but Ali’s heart had love for her inside it. It was like an equation where Sara being alive meant that he would have a pure feeling, such as 'love'. He had little of it left, but this didn’t matter. He loved her enough to put the Messi figurine on her hill instead of his. Her smile drowned the noise of the ever-present drones.

“What would you do after the war ends?” Sara asked, but he couldn’t help but turn sharply toward her in anger. “It’s not a war. It’s a genocide.”

Sara’s innocence made her not realise that Ali was upset because he never got mad at her, so it was an unlikely scenario. This thought calmed him down.

“I like calling it war. A war seems like it will have an end one day, but a genocide feels like its end will come with our end.”

She didn’t give him a chance to reply as she repeated her question again. Ali closed his eyes tightly and tried to focus only on his own voice. “If the war ended", Sara quickly interrupted him, "when the war ends.” “Okay,” he started again. “When the war ends, I will travel to work in foreign lands. Maybe America. Fuck them.” Sara didn’t mind the slur. In fact, she laughed. Ali wanted to remember this laughter forever. “Fuck America, but I want to go there. I want to see the world, and maybe I will start there. It has been so long since I tasted decent food. I forgot what chicken tastes like. So maybe I will go to a restaurant or two. "Fuck McDonald's and fuck KFC,” Sara laughed again. “Maybe I will go to Taco Bell.”

“What is a Taco Bell?”

“I only know that it is a restaurant. I don’t know what they serve, but I would like to go there. There is a literary magazine named after Taco Bell. I knew about the restaurant from them. I will order something and read to myself in the middle of each bite the poem I plan to send to this magazine.”

Sara stood up and jumped up and down, demanding that Ali read the poem. He couldn’t say no with her eyes shining brighter than all the fires he had seen recently.

I called my father in pain, but he never replied. I called for my mother then, but her voice was distant.

My brother was next, but by then he was already dead.

So I called my sister, and her answer came, but it was faint, for the sky was busy.

So I held her hand as her voice ceased to remain.

“That is a terrible poem,” Sara said, and Ali laughed for the first time since they became two. “Maybe after the war I will work on my poetry skills.” He realised as soon as he finished talking that he had said 'war' instead of 'genocide'. When he realised that he didn’t include Sara in his Taco Bell dream, it was too late to fix that, as someone yelled, "Hide." Bullets and bombs invaded the air along with many bodies.

After the first explosion, Ali heard someone yell, “Ya Allah.” That someone was him.

“Yalla, Sara, yalla. We have to go." He turned to look at his sister, and the voices were almost gone.

The blood shone brighter than Sara’s eyes, and the only thing Ali could think about was that he didn’t include Sara in his dream. She died before he could dream for both of them.

"Sara", his knees hit the ground once again just like they did when they became two. They were now one. He was now on his own.

“Yalla, Sara, yalla," he repeated as if these words would wake her up again. People around him yelled at him to run. Some tried to get him to stand up. When the smoke was almost everywhere, he took the figurine from beside his sister and started to run too, hoping that the wind would take these recent memories with it.

The Messi figurine had Sara’s blood on it. By the time he reached safety, it had already dried. Ali couldn’t remember how long he had cried. He couldn’t remember how many times he called for God. He couldn’t remember Sara’s laugh.

It has been one week since Sara died.

They announced the ceasefire yesterday.

Ali hated that time didn’t choose Sara’s side.

He didn’t believe in the ceasefire. His father told him to never trust the enemy, and he trusted his father.

His legs started to hurt as he walked past kids laughing. He searched for Sara’s laugh between them, but he already knew the result. “So I held her hand as her voice ceased to remain,” he whispered.

Her voice ceased to remain.

The memories of his family, the four gone, haunted Ali’s mind. He tried with difficulty to hold these memories, to never let them go. He tried to memorise the faces, the voices, and how each one’s skin felt against his. He tried to remember the laughter and the tears as well. He tried to remember where the makeshift graves were, but he never found them. Memory wasn’t on his side.

He already felt gone. What does he have left? Why didn’t he include Sara in his dream? Why didn’t they dream together?

Why didn’t Sara live long enough to see him get better at poetry?

He walked for longer until he found his way through the tears. He found what he was looking for.

Their house was destroyed, but it was surrounded by ones that remained standing. The ruins were all over the place, including furniture. Ali had to move a few rocks until he found his father’s favourite chair. He pulled it, with its broken leg, and tried to keep it standing, and then he allowed his legs to touch something other than rocks. The little figurine was still in his pocket, and Sara, in a way, was still with him.

Ali closed his eyes and tried to remember the final hug when all were alive and the noise didn’t exist. He tried really hard. He kept opening and closing his eyes, as if this would make the memory walk to the front of his mind and wait for him to take it.

Open.
Close.
Open.
Close.

Open… he looked at the building standing in front of him. He stared at the soldier hiding in plain clothes with a sniper rifle in his hand.

His father told him to never trust the enemy.

Ali took the little figurine from his pocket and put it on a rock in front of him. It was his last possession. It was his last anything.

He stared at it and counted from five to zero.

Then he closed his eyes, smiled, and allowed the noise to rise suddenly, loudly, before he couldn’t hear anything anymore.