I saw the switch flip in their eyes. I saw that flicker of threat. The way their stances shifted into those of aggression that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. They were disgusted by me. I was no longer a friend, a peer, someone to play with. I was an easy target. I was prey.
I think what interested me was the people who neither died nor left. I was interested in the people who survived and stayed behind. You know, a lot of history focuses, and rightly so, on the million or so people who died. And then also the people who emigrated. I feel as though those stories have been — we know those stories in a sense, and they're terrible, tragic stories.
For everyone in London, whether you lived through the night was, therefore, a matter of luck. The odds were long, only one in 20,000 chances of being hit, said the papers. But still, every bomb landed somewhere. Each bomb might be that one. You couldn't know it wasn't till it hadn't fallen on you.
3mo ago
Underscored — save the words that stop you in your tracks.
