The muffled chorus of a village at war – rapid drums rolling to a wailing choir. This threnody lasting with the passing hours. The refrain approaches like a funeral dirge. Papa squeezes us tight. The door begins to lurch and collapses, and into our home they surge. The trigger depresses prompting an awful cacophony. The roaring of a hundred dragons in a hollow synergy. Papa acts just like a rag doll and his gaze falls hard on me. Four five six. His stare digresses and his concluding scene is mother jiving as her dress is torn apart by bullets. My younger sister rests cradled in my arms. My eyes are squeezed shut. Seven eight nine. Three rumbling shots break my mortal shield and burrow into my gut.