I go outside between bombings. I need to walk my dog. It constantly whines, trembles and hides behind my legs. I feel like sleeping all the time. My yard, surrounded by high-rise buildings, is quiet and dead. I'm no longer afraid to look around. I watch the entrance of the 105th building burning down. The flames have devoured five floors and are slowly chewing on the sixth. In the rooms, the fire burns neatly, like in a fireplace. Black, charred windows stand without glass. Curtains gnawed by the flames fall out of them like tongues. I look at it calmly and doomed.
I'm sure I'll die soon. It's a matter of a few days. In this city, everyone is constantly waiting for death. I just wish it wasn't so scary.
Three days ago, a friend of my older nephew came to us and said that there was a direct hit at the fire department and rescue workers died. One woman had her arm, leg and head blown off.
I wish that my body parts would remain intact, even after the explosion of an air bomb. I don’t know why, but it seems important to me. Regardless, l would still not be buried during the siege.
When we caught the police on the street and asked what to do with the dead grandmother of our friend, they told us to put her on the balcony. I wonder how many balconies have dead bodies on them.
Our house on Mira Avenue is the only one without direct hits. It was hit twice on either side by shells and the windows flew out in some of the apartments. However, it was barely damaged, compared to other houses, and it looks like we were lucky. The entire yard is covered with several layers of ash, glass, plastic and metal fragments. I try not to look at the iron weapon that flew to the playground. I think it's a rocket, or maybe a mine. I don't care, it's just annoying.
In the window of the third floor I see someone's face and I twitch. It turns out that I'm afraid of living people. My dog starts howling and I understand that now they will shoot again.
I stand in the daytime on the street, and around the cemetery in silence. There are no cars, no voices, no children, no grandmothers on benches. Even the wind died. There are still a few dead people here. They lie on the side of the house and in the parking lot, covered with outerwear. I don't want to look at them. I'm afraid I'll see someone I know.
All life in my city is now smoldering in basements. It looks like a candle and there is nothing we can do to keep it from extinguishing. Any vibration or breeze and darkness will come. I try to cry, but I can't. I feel sorry for myself, my family, my husband, neighbors, friends. I go back to the basement and listen to the vile iron grinding. Two weeks have passed, and I no longer believe that there was once another life.
In Mariupol, people continue to sit in the basement. Every day it gets harder for them to survive. They have no water, food, light, they cannot even go outside because of the constant shelling. Mariupol residents must live. Help them. Tell about it. Let everyone know that civilians continue to be killed.
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