Not to say that they were aliens. No. They were just different. They have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, two ears. Everything you would have expected. But they were different in a way, that you know what this was all about. It was about the lowest kind of reason among other theories you have been thinking of. Yet, it was still the most often occurring reason. The fact that you are different itself was the cause, and the assumption that you were same with the rest of the 75 people.

How mundane are people? How susceptible? How banal? How same. You were disappointed with a different reason than the rest of the 75 people. Smiles were beginning to disappear from faces, chatters die as they adjusted their eyes and looked towards the saviors. How brief can joy be.

They lowered their stairs, and down came a few men with their weapons. Guns, big ones, not like the rifles you've seen. These guys meant business. They spoke to you with anger, as if your father had killed theirs. Go up, they said. Fast. Then they prod you and pointed at you, and off you go supporting grandma with your arms.

Up you went, to breathe the sunlight. You looked around, shocked even though you were prepared. You can imagine it in your head, a broken city, but when you see it and it's in front of your eyes it's a whole different story. There was nothing left, except ashes, dust, piles of blackened concrete. Not a speck of green. You see gray ashes in front and all around, you saw nothing of the tall office buildings and apartments. You staggered forward, dragging your grandmother. The ones who got out before you stood agape looking at the view.

As the soldiers or whoever they are prodded all of you to walk in a line, everyone walked slowly looking back over their shoulders. Towards the ashes, towards scattered torn paper blown by the dusty wind, towards a burnt photograph of a child next to your feet. You photographed the ruins with your eyes, just like the rest of you. You imprinted the negative on your heart, like branding cows with hot steel where they leave hot black scars of memories.

Apparently, they walked you towards the city jail. Surprisingly, they left the building half intact which was multiple times more than your houses. They sent you crouching on the dirt between the mesh wire. They appointed guards to watch that none of you take advantage of the broken part of the fence. It's like being chickens on a coop, somewhat, only they don't seem to intend to feed you here.

Grandma was gasping for air, she was exhausted, after being cooped up without fresh air and now this. You sat her down as comfortably as possible - which wasn't much. You asked the guards for some water, and he glared at you. Probably thinks you were trying to distract and tackled him down. As if you'd try that on a man twice your size. The guard finally squinted his eyes and waved to his friend something, who went away. Mr. Green and your father tried to talk to the guards, what is this all about? Why are they taking us prisoners? Who are they? What has happened during the week? So many questions left unanswered. The guards shook their head, they are big and strong and probably the qualities stopped there.

You noticed the surroundings, there were ten guards, heavily armed. All looking similar in physical features. They have brown skin, dark brown eyes, little or no facial hair. The guards have hunger in their look, like something went missing and they're trying to look for the answers in your group.

Your imagination runs wild and high that you didn't notice another set of guards with another devastated group. Your brother nudged you back into reality and you turned to look who approached. The guards squeezed you to fit the new people, and you recognize who the newcomers are. They're the next neighborhood, there were some friends from high school, there was your schoolmaster. This was the neighborhood where you go to school to, where most of your friends were from. Wait a minute. It's where she lives.

You craned your neck to see a slim figure in the middle of the crowd, her auburn hair rustled and faded, her clothes as dirty as yours, her eyes solemn and downcast. As the crowd sat down, she took a moment before sitting down and the sunlight catches her face. At that moment you saw she was still who she is. A butterfly amongst the bushes, and angel trapped hell. This place is not a place for her. You got up involuntarily, enraged and burning.