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September 11th

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It started with an idea. The idea of a sick and twisted, warped and distorted mind. Years and years of painfully precise planning, persuasion and perseverance went into perfecting this nightmare. Cowering in the corner of this hostile room I look over to my desk, an oasis of calm amongst this catastrophic chaos. Snapshots of loved ones preserved in shards of glass, so comforting yet so disturbing. I see my children, my husband, my friends, my life. Still before me. Frozen frames of happiness. Seeing the beaming faces of my loved ones gives me hope. Yet will my family look back on these photos in the years to come and see orphaned children, a widowed husband and severed friendships? Screams strangle me, muddling my thoughts and contorting my vision of a peaceful death. I lapse into silence, my brain whirring with the thought of my imminent eradication.





A piercing shatter perturbs my peace, and my anger levels begin to rise. Through the fragmented window I see bodies plummeting, people falling from the sky like raindrops. Their clothes billow and the screams they are producing are lost in the wind. Soon these bodies will hit the concrete beneath this once glorious building and die instantly; but for now they are falling, falling, falling. These people are defiant, refusing to be killed the way they were meant to; refusing to suffer, refusing to succumb to the morbid wishes of another. I stop pacing back and forth, fruitlessly searching for an answer and collapse into a corner, watching a wall of grey and white smoke advance toward me. A thick haze of death. The smoke rises and falls like a fairground ride. I don't want to breathe in this torturous air. I do not want to think of what or indeed who I am consuming.
The heat is becoming unbearable, drying out my throat so my plead for help becomes nothing more than a hoarse whisper. Tears begin to fall, smooth and relieving, rolling down my face.


















The smoke fills my lungs and flames begin to lick at the furniture in the room, giving it an amber flow. The lights above smash, showering me in glass like I was showered with confetti on my wedding day. I suddenly crave the presence of my husband, he must know I am here, struggling to survive. The smoke is so viscous I can barely see my own hand in front of my face. I manoeuvre myself to the windows and mistily stare out over New York, my home. There is no longer any hope, no benevolent god, no silver lining in this cloud of smoke. Looking back, I regret my life. If I had known I would die this way, in a disposable list of victims, I would have been more selfish. Not always helping others, because now no one is here to help me. I am being forced to give my life, sacrificed in a way that is neither peaceful nor traditional. My life has been selected, destined to end.





A wave of thought hits me like wall, I clamber up, covering my moth, trying not to breathe in the visible mist of death. Struggling onto the window frame, I remove my white cotton shirt and start waving it out of the window. White, the sign of surrender. After twirling until my arms are limp and I am showing all signs of exhaustion and no signs of being saved, I collapse to the floor; fighting for survival. I lay limp and lifeless on the synthetic carpet. My breathing has become an irritating wheeze and images of my loved ones fill my head and tears slip down my face. 'I love you' I whisper, before silently slipping into my everlasting sleep.





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AlwaysAbditive said...
Jul. 6, 2012 at 12:43 pm
I really like how you approached the topic of 9-11. The beginning was very enticing and I kept on thinking, why couldn't I have come up with something like this. The ending wasn't as strong in my opinion, though. Keep writing.
 
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