/lit/ - Literature

>>8159797
>MFW all of my favorite authors are pleb tier

The opening bit about a novel about PTSD, looking for any sort of feedback to the imagery/language. Thanks!

The building that once held the only preschool in Asmayi had been leveled - all that stood were pillars of serrated concrete with charcoal smoke oozing out of the structure's orifices. What were once brightly colored bricks were now all uniformly grey, with an evenness that made it seem like the entire one story building had just received a fresh layer of paint. The doorway and the supporting walls were obliterated in the blast, revealing the innards of the school; from the street opposite one could clearly see inside several classrooms.

Quiet.

The stillness lingered in the air for a few moments, until one of the dust-laden corners began to squirm and writhe inside the building. Slow, gurgling moans soon evolved into resonant cries of agony.

"Darawem! Darawem! [Stop! Stop!]" The frail voice cried -- it was a bright, young voice that strained and wheezed with each breath. The dusty corner folded itself back to reveal the red face of a boy, around eight, who - moments ago - had his body hurled forward, the blast pinning him between several sections of mud brick and pise. His cries became less resonant as his energy left him, and his body collapsed-- defeated -- to the rubble below him. His skull was shattered open when it hit the corner in front of him and fragmented pieces of blood-stained bone and hair lay in front of him. Osman felt the boys trembling flesh beneath his fingers as he held him up; he froze. The coal black smoke choked him and he coughed, tightly he gripped the boy's body and felt his own twist and contort in impotent convulsions. Through the boy's shirt he felt his heart seize and sputter like a car engine in it’s struggle to pump blood.

Osman observed.

He observed the cavity in the boy's head. He saw the boy's brain throb around the small chunk of concrete solidly set inside of it. Osman stopped – averting his gaze – no use. He and the boy were able to silently communicate the truth of their circumstances.

Osman wondered if the boy knew; he searched for answers inside the boys pale face. "His eyes were searching," he said. "Up and around, until the moment he died they never stayed in one place. It's like having it ripped right out of you and you're just left there wondering. Like his eyes couldn't keep up with the rest of him, he might've been dying but his eyes never stopped looking for answers." Osman paused, leant back into his chair and avoided eye contact with the doctor.