March 19, 1925

Marko dug his spade into the muddy ground, dirt splattering his boots. He wiped sweat from his brow and got back to work, his feet aching and swollen. He had to work for  hours every day if he wanted to his dad to live, who was down with a deadly disease and permanently on his bed. Resting his tools down, he  went back into the house and got a drink of water, panting and puffing like he had just run a marathon.

 

Marko went into his room and flopped onto his bed and felt his eyes go groggy. He fell into a deep sleep, unaware of anything that was happening. He woke up to find a tingling in his nose. He got up, trying to locate what the smell was.
He raced outside into the living room and to his shock found the place in flames, ashes flying everywhere. His first thought was his father. He was sickly and wouldn’t be able to get out on his own. He rushed to his dad’s room, finding him still in his bed and Marko dashed towards him, and shouted loudly, trying to him get up and run outside. One of the walls fell down and by now Marko was getting desperate. He screamed at his dad, only to realise that there was no point. He knew that his father was now dead. Tears brimmed his eyes and took one last look at the crumbling rubble that used to be his house. He turned around, and then started running.