Spoiler! :
CHAPTER 1
Truth
I'm running with all my might. The heat caused by the friction of my worn shoes against the road is easily seeping through; my feet are on fire. My sweat has drenched my heavy cotton shirt and pull-over hoodie. My jeans are rubbing against my legs harshly and I'm sure I'll have raw spots later.
I've been running for what seems an eternity, and when I don't care about my past or my future, that's pretty much what it is. I'm not even sure why I'm running. Why didn't I just stay in the tower? That would be fulfilling my wish, wouldn't it? But then again, I was a person of my word and I wasn't about to let myself die on the wrong date.
I stumble a few times and almost run into other fleeing people who were stupid enough to watch the tower as it was becoming engulfed in flames. I don't dare look back, but I know there's a giant cloud of debris and dust about to swallow me whole. So I keep running.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
My heartbeat's going twice as fast as my footfall is, and that's saying something. I can hear the roar and squealing from the tower as is collapses - it pushes me forward even more. The sound seems to get closer and closer, and I know that it's shoving the debris closer to me.
My chest is tightening with nothing other than terror. I don't want to be suffocated by the toxic fumes I can sense are coming my way, but I will be. My legs are so exhausted they're almost numb and my stride is becoming less of a stampede and more of a jog.
Then there it is - my breaking point.
Defeat is so painful it's almost like I can hear the resolve to my life.
Snap. It's all over.
Just like that, I'm on my stomach and my face smashed up against the gritty pavement. Warm tears are seeping through my eyes, wetting my eyelashes as I scrape my fingers against the ground in sheer frustration. It feels like my life's in an agonizing slow motion.
My mind then betrays me and one traitor thought reveals it all to me in the worst time possible.
Please, I don't want to die. But this is how it is.
I'm now breathing in the polluted air, not caring how bad it smelled, how bad it felt sucking in through my nostrils and into my lungs. After only a few breaths, the debris has collected and there's goop sticking in my throat. I cough violently in a purely instinctual attempt to dislodge it.
Suddenly a hand yanks on my upper arm, forcing me to get up. I move only by force, as my legs feel completely useless.
I'm just exhausted. All the adrenaline, the fight, has left me, leaving me with something similar to a hangover. But if not for me, for this person. I knew what guilt felt like, and I couldn't put my death on someone's shoulders.
I get up and quickly break into a run with the stranger beside me, the fear of guilt, and still not death, energizing my body. The ashes are blowing everywhere; all my senses are powerless. My ears are aching from the noise, my taste buds are coated with some unnatural residue, and opening my eyes would cause particles to collect in them.
Pieces of the tower are still smacking into the ground, clanging all around me. I can only hope that a piece doesn't crush me.
A few more paces forward and then it all stops. Just silence. I stop running, watching the dust settle slowly like snow in morbid fascination. My mind won't allow the truth to sink in that the “snow” contains human remains.
Relief starts to wash over me from the knowledge that it's over, but there's also a sour twang of dread in the air. It's bitter, and my stomach feels like I ate a bucket of lemons. How many people are dead now?
It had to be in the thousands.
I'm stuck in some sort of a daze for minutes, breathing shallowly and swallowing collected ashes in my throat every once in a while.
This was America. America. I thought I had had some sense of safety before, but now it was like someone had ripped the walls to my shelter down. Bare. Exposed.
Was there going to be another explosion right by my feet in a second or two? What was going to happen next? Would we have to start hiding everyday, carry a gun with us 24/7? Would we have war in our own backyards?
“Hello? Can you talk to me, please?” I hear a voice from in front of me and shove myself back to the real world. I quickly realize she was the one who had pulled me up from the ground.
“Yes, sorry,” I struggle to answer. My voice is hoarse and my throat feels raw.
“Okay, good,” the woman sighs in relief.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly, in the least grateful tone in the world.
Zoraida Alger, queen of the social butterfly planet. My thoughts say sarcastically.
I inwardly roll my eyes at them in a very childish manner.
Not in this life.
The woman looks back at me and nods. “Just helping out when I can.” There's a tense pause, and it feels long for only a second. “Is there anyone I can help look for? For you. I mean, you must have family.”
I'm used to the tightening in my chest when someone says the word “family” and refers to me.
“No, I'm an orphan,” I try to state as less blunt as I can, but it comes out like a slap to her soft soul, her thin eyebrows shooting up in shock.
Sorry about that.
“Oh...” she says slowly, “I'm sorry.”
Three “sorries” in under a minute. Wowzers.
I decide to change the subject. “Do you have any family I could help look for? It would be the least I could do.” I feel more than a little awkward. Thousands of people had just died, were dying, or were brutally injured and we're pretty much exchanging pleasantries.
So very, very considerate.
“I have a son named Aden... but I really shouldn't be asking-”
“No, really. I want to help you out,” I interrupt.
Got nothing else to do.
“Okay,” she looks happier than I've ever even imagined anyone could. It makes my heart warm.
She quickly explains to me his features, and so I take off, forgetting my own pain from exhaustion.
Once I turn down onto another street, closer to the towers, I swallow hard. People are everywhere, choking up ashes and scrubbing them off their faces. If I had anything in my stomach it would've been out within a second.
I run over to the closest person possible and ask them if they're okay. Obviously it's a stupid question, but I think they get that I mean life-or-death within the next few minutes, considering the circumstances.
They do, thank goodness.
There are rescue workers quickly flooding the area, but I still want to find Aden. I realize I never got his mother's name, but I lose interest in my thoughts when I see someone who fits the description she had given me.
I run up to him. “Are you Aden Brann?” I ask.
He turns around - I'm not surprised his face is covered in ashes - and he's taller than I expected. Like, not basketball player tall but like, casts-a-small-shadow-on-you tall.
You've got a real diverse vocab, my thoughts muttered.
“Yeah?” He says, but looks at me as if I just asked him if he was two scoops of Raisin Bran with extra fiber.
Awkward, much.
“You're Mom's been looking for you,” I say like I'm a neighbor and ignoring the fact how quickly I found him. Maybe they hadn't been separated for very long.
“My mom?” He looks completely lost for a moment.
“Yep. She's coming over here, I think. She's right th-”
“I'm sorry, I don't think I understand.” He says, cutting me off.
I tilt my head to the side as if it'll get what he's meaning through my head easier.
He swallows and his eyes flicker to behind my head for a split second.
“My mom's been dead for eight years.”
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