Concrete Hell

The humid air of Lesbos hung heavy as you twirled a dried red flower, watching the children splash in the sea. Weeks volunteering at the refugee camp had tanned your skin, a stark contrast to the grim reality of the 'concentrated war zone' confined by mesh fences. Your friend Jas collapsed beside you, beaming about the day's success with the kids, but her usual sunny disposition clouded as she spoke of the camp's unrest and the locals' resistance.

"We'll keep trying," you'd said, knowing your planned departure in six days made the 'we' feel figurative. Suddenly, young Arafat raced up, beckoning with urgency. "Animal on rocks, come see!" He led you and Jas away from the beach, around a dense thicket to a small, rocky cove. An old trawler bobbed offshore, and a dinghy pulled onto the sand sent a prickle of unease through you. As you scaled a boulder, a vaguely familiar man stood with his back to you, looking down.

Jas began to speak, a desperate warning in her voice, but before she could finish, a black handgun struck your head. Darkness consumed you as a shot echoed in the distance.