Version of "The ones who walk away from Omelas" by Ursula K. LeGuin.
The walls were filthy, covered with a thin layer of grease and dust. There was no light. I could barely see anything around me, so I just slowly followed the guard. I could feel my father’s heavy breathing right behind me and my mother’s light steps a bit farther away. She was crying, and I didn’t know why. As we went on through the passageways, the stench steadily worsened, becoming almost unbearable. It was nothing, however, compared to the sight that awaited: a body, laying in its own feces, motionless. It resembled a corpse, pale and bony, and it looked as if someone had shoved it carelessly in the corner of the room. Despite the distance and the darkness, I could spot bruises all over it. I could tell it was in deep agony; that it was starved. Dying, right there in front of us. It was a child, like I once was. I felt sick.
My father approached me and started speaking slowly, trying to explain the meaning of it all. I could not concentrate. My mother hugged me, trying to repress the tears. Even though I knew the picture of it would stay forever imprinted in my mind, I suddenly felt calm. I don't know why.
To this day, I do not regret my choice. Even though at the time I was hesitant between happiness and remorse, I know that even if I had left, it would not have changed anything. No matter what leaving would have meant to me - the child would still be in that basement.
This though, doesn’t mean that at times I do not feel guilty. Because I do.
My father approached me and started speaking slowly, trying to explain the meaning of it all. I could not concentrate. My mother hugged me, trying to repress the tears. Even though I knew the picture of it would stay forever imprinted in my mind, I suddenly felt calm. I don't know why.
To this day, I do not regret my choice. Even though at the time I was hesitant between happiness and remorse, I know that even if I had left, it would not have changed anything. No matter what leaving would have meant to me - the child would still be in that basement.
This though, doesn’t mean that at times I do not feel guilty. Because I do.
Vera Pacoova Dal Maschio