Home was a concentration camp. Lying on a concrete floor with protruding bones and a shaven head compounded the coldness ravaging his body. He knew that once he entered the shower room he’d be dead within an hour; that the chemicals that would saturate the air doomed him and his campmates to a senseless death. They were naked and huddled in fear, crying and praying that their lives would be spared. In order not to burn his lungs he tried to hold his breath, but what flashed before his eyes was a clean but tortured death.
Pamela Bruschi is a retired nurse who lives in the woods of Maine. She and her grandson wrote a short poem for a school project and she adapted the poem into a short story for this submission. She enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with her grandchildren.
The Centifictionist 
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