THREE MONTH'S AGO

I sat in the back row of the auditorium, my heart pounding in my chest. The crowded room had a stale, musty smell that made it difficult to breathe. The muffled rustling of papers and occasional coughs filled the air, adding to my overwhelming sense of confinement. I'd taken my meds like clockwork this morning, but the sudden assembly caught me off guard, and now the walls seemed to close in around me.

"You can do this. Just get to the door." My fingers dug into my palms.

I stood on shaky legs, shuffling toward the aisle. Mr. Thomas stood guard by the door, his bushy eyebrows knitting together as I approached.

"Emergency." He'd seen me like this before, and after a moment's hesitation, he nodded and stepped aside.

The hallway stretched before me, empty and muted. When I arrived at the bathroom, I met a stranger in the mirror - pale face, dilated pupils, sweat beading on my forehead. I tried to remember my therapist's breathing exercises, but they offered little relief. I wished I had my emergency meds instead of leaving them in my nightstand drawer at home.

Unable to face returning to the assembly, I slipped out to the courtyard. A light breeze carried autumn leaves across the pavement as I found a secluded bench beneath an old oak tree. The branches stretched out above me, offering a comforting canopy that filtered the afternoon light. Time seemed to slow as I sat there, letting the quiet of the outdoors wash over me.

The rest of the school day passed in a hazy blur. By lunch, my stomach was in knots, so I found refuge in the library. Mrs. Chen, the librarian, gave me a knowing look, but said nothing. Music through my earbuds created a protective shield, drowning out the chaos in my head.

When the final bell rang, I endured the bus ride home, counting stops and focusing on my music. Finally, I reached our hobby farm - my sanctuary. The familiar crunch of gravel under my feet and the sight of our weathered red barn brought immediate comfort. Here, I could breathe again.

The barn door creaked open, and Bessie, our oldest goat, greeted me with an enthusiastic bleat. Moving through my chores with practiced ease, I found comfort in the routine. Fresh water, hay, and feed - each task helped ground me in the present moment. Daisy, our old mare, listened as I detailed the morning's panic attack, occasionally nudging my shoulder with her velvet nose. While I ran the curry comb over her coat, the rhythmic motion soothed my nerves.

As evening settled in, I sat on the back porch steps with my guitar. My fingers settled on the strings, and a new melody emerged from the day's turbulent emotions.

Locked away, but finally free

The world outside fades like the sea

In solitude, my heart takes flight

A quiet spark in the endless night

Later, at dinner, my family didn't press me to talk. They just made space for me at the table, sharing quiet conversation. Sometimes the smallest mercies were the biggest blessings - like family who understood, animals who accepted, and music that healed.

Tomorrow would come with its own battles, but tonight, in this moment, I was okay. And sometimes, that was all I could ask for.

***

The first hints of trouble came during breakfast, two weeks after my panic attack in the auditorium. Dad sat at the kitchen table, coffee untouched, staring at his phone. "Another case in Portland. That makes fifteen this week." I pushed my cereal around the bowl, half-listening as my parents discussed some new virus making headlines. Back then, it seemed distant, just another story buried between celebrity gossip and weather reports.

Mom started sneaking extra canned goods and rice into her cart. Dad disappeared into his office for hushed calls with the bank during lunch. The pharmacy needed a week's notice for my anxiety meds—"supply chain issues." Emergency room horror stories circulated through kids with healthcare parents, while Mrs. Reynolds slipped a cancellation notice for our field trip into our folders without explanation.

"Temporarily Closed" signs crept down Main Street like a virus of their own. The grocery store posted ration limits, while the feed store doubled its prices overnight. In the barn, Dad's hammer rang out as he installed new locks—something I'd never seen him do in all my years on the farm.

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At home, we prepared. Mom transformed our basement into a storehouse, shelves groaning under the weight of emergency supplies. Dad installed solar panels and a backup generator. Emily, my younger sister, and I were assigned specific responsibilities. She helped Mom with indoor tasks while I assisted Dad with outdoor security and animal care. I threw myself into learning sustainable farming practices, trying to channel my anxiety into something useful.

The animals sensed the change in atmosphere. During evening chores, Daisy, my favourite horse, paced her stall restlessly. Even the chickens seemed more alert, clustering together when planes flew overhead. Nature itself seemed to warn us that something was coming.

Then came the night everything ended.

All day, there had been more traffic than usual on our quiet country road - unfamiliar vehicles moving too fast, their engines growling with purpose. Dad spent hours by the window, his jaw tightening with each passing car. The news had been full of reports about riots in nearby towns. As darkness fell, distant sirens wailed, and occasional gunshots echoed through the valley.

When Dad started boarding up the windows, the hollow thunk of hammer against nails sounding like a countdown, we knew things were serious. I sat in the living room, aimlessly strumming my guitar. Each chord felt like a farewell to the world we'd known.

The engines growled, purposeful and predatory. Gravel crunched under heavy tires. "Everyone down." Dad shoved us behind the kitchen counter. We huddled together, my heart thundering as headlights knifed through the boards, casting long shadows across our family photos.

"We need to split up. Mom, take Emily through the cellar tunnel. Brendan and I will lead them away from you, then circle back." Dad's voice cracked with fear as the front door splintered inward. Emily whimpered against Mom's chest.

"The meeting spot. Two hours. If anyone doesn't make it, we try again at dawn." In Dad's eyes, I saw something new—raw fear.

Everything happened fast after that. The door gave way with a thunderous crash. Mom and Emily slipped toward the cellar while Dad and I burst through the back door into the night. As we sprinted toward the barn, the frigid air scorched my lungs while the flashlight beams pierced the darkness behind us.

"Split up! I'll draw them off - you circle around to the meeting spot!" Dad veered left while I kept running straight. Most of the footsteps followed him - he was more visible, more obvious. Smart. He'd lose them in the woods and double back.

I made it to the barn, pressing myself against the wall, trying to silence my ragged breathing. Through the slats, I watched flashlights dance in the distance as they pursued Dad. Then Emily's scream cut through the night, high and terrified. They'd found the cellar entrance.

I started to move, to run back, but voices approached the barn. Trapped, I climbed to the hayloft as footsteps crunched outside. Three gunshots, each a sharp, physical blow, rang out from the forest.

"We got them! Two women - mother and daughter!" A triumphant call rang out from the house. They were alive, at least for now, but captured.

I jumped from the hayloft window, rolling across dirt to the shed. There sat my dirt bike and Dad's guitar—its scratches and dents a map of memories. Late-night lessons, campfire songs, his proud smile when I finally nailed "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." Logic said leave it, but my hands reached anyway. I snatched the emergency pack he'd drilled me about until I could find it blindfolded.

The bike's engine roared to life as headlights flooded the shed. I burst out like a bullet; the guitar bouncing against my back as I swerved past surprised attackers. Farm life had made this bike an extension of myself - every bump, every turn, was muscle memory. I cut through the apple orchard, weaving between trees as branches whipped past.

When I reached the edge of our property, I risked a glance back. The horizon glowed orange and red, flames devouring what remained of my home. Every window blazed with hellish light, consuming the walls that had sheltered us, the rooms where we'd lived and laughed and loved. A sob tore from my chest, but I couldn't stop.

I rode through the night, the dark expanse of road stretching endlessly before me. Dad's guitar pressed against my back as the wind carried away my tears. When exhaustion began to overwhelm me, I found an abandoned gas station, its dark windows and empty pumps covered in dust.

Collapsing against the cool concrete wall, I let grief finally overtake me. Images of my family flooded my mind - Dad's proud smile, Mom's warm embrace, Emily's innocent laughter during our impromptu living room concerts. All gone. All stolen in one night of violence.

With trembling hands, I reached for the guitar and pulled it into my lap. My fingers reacted, plucking out a soft, mournful tune. The melody drifted through the air, filling the silence with something other than despair. This song honoured my lost family, an elegy to my destroyed world.

When the music faded, I stood up, slinging the guitar back over my shoulder. My hands still trembled as I gripped the handlebars, but the familiar hum of the engine brought a small measure of comfort. The rising sun cast harsh light over the barren landscape as I rode out into the unknown. The world had taken everything from me, but it hadn't taken my will to live. And that would have to be enough.

Behind me, the guitar tapped against my back, each touch a reminder of who I was and where I came from. In its worn wood and broken-in strings lived the memories of better days - days of family dinners and music lessons, of laughter and love. Those memories would have to sustain me now, as I rode toward whatever remained of the world we'd lost.

In the journey's loneliness, a ballad began to form in my mind:

As I ride on through the darkened night,

Memories flash like dying light.

My family, my home, all swept away,

In the silence where no dawn holds sway.

Every chord holds a memory dear,

Guiding me through when no path is clear.

So I journey on with this weight inside,

While melodies offer a place to hide.

In every note, I feel their grace,

The love that time cannot erase.

Each string I play, each note that rings,

Carries the echo of better things.

Though all is lost and night grows deep,

These memories I'll forever keep.