Page 41 of Rushed

“No, she’s just unconscious.”

Blood tracks in consistent rivulets down the side of her head, and onto the collar of her crystal encrusted blue dress. Her smeared mascara—that would have been perfectly applied—along with the streaked concealer and bb cream, shows where she’s dragged her hands across her face to wipe off sweat and dirt. Her tattered and tangled platinum shoulder length hair is a disheveled mess.

“I’m tryin’ to get ya both out, but I’ll need ya to help me,” he repeats. Bending down, looking around our prone, stuck bodies, he says, “I think I can get her out if ya lift that chunk of wood on yer left. Can ya do that?”

Blood is leaking into my sight, but I see this angel close enough to kiss. Muck plasters his hair to his forehead, blood trickles out of a cut at the edge of his nose, and his kissable split lips are gray with concrete dust. But his eyes. Wow, his eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.

“I don’t know if I can move it much.”

“I’ll help. Try to push it away from her chest and I’ll do the rest.”

I nod.

“On the count of three, push it over. One, two, three!”

Letting go of her hand, I push as hard as I can against the wood. The angel sticks another chunk of wood under it, propping it up higher.

“Good girl,” he praises, as the piece he wanted out of the way is now cleared. Giving him space to move us out of our concrete and girder grave, I feel like we might get out of here.

“Now, let’s get ya two out. Can ya move yer legs?”

Taking stock of my own functions, I nod. “Good. I’m gonna move ya slowly, so if something hurts or catches, let me know. Here we go.” He cups the undersides of my arms, pulling me gingerly out from under the concrete prison. Sliding out, I feel my opaque tights catch and tear, and my skirt rips on the rough surface of the torn concrete, but other than that, I escape, unscathed.

“Ya all right?” He looks me over from head to toe.

“Other than the obvious, I’m good. Let’s get her out.”

He shakes his head, laughing at me as he turns to the other woman. “Yer not doin’ anythin’. Just sit there, please.”

I don’t put up much of a fight; I’m too tired. As I take a squat on a slab of broken wall, the angel proceeds to lift her out. Holding her neck, cradling it as gently as one would a baby, he pulls her free. She looks horrible, way worse than I do.

He checks her breathing, peels her eyelids back to look for God-knows-what and feels for her pulse. “She should be okay, but we have to stop this bleeding.” Sitting back on his haunches, he pulls on the corner of his tattered shirt that was once white. Tearing away a section of it and wrapping it around her head like a pro, he tightens it at the back and places pressure on the cuts.

“Are ya sure yer okay? Nothin’ too bad, I hope.” He asks over his shoulder without turning in my direction. He’s totally engrossed in the beautiful lady’s injuries. “We should move her and find her someone who can give her the medical attention she needs. Are ya up for movin’?”

Moving. Am I up for moving? I guess so.

“What happened?” I ask as he lifts her off the rubble and debris. Her petite frame slumps against his hard packed body, muscles on muscles straining under the threads as her head curls until it’s resting around his neck.

“Ya don’t know? How could ya not know? Where were ya and yer friend?”

“Good question, but where ishere?”

Looking around us, there is building material everywhere, mangled, torn, twisted and broken. There are cables, metal sheets, torn bits of cloth swinging in the breeze, and people milling this way and that, all confused and crying.

The angel stands there, confusion lacing his features, holding her in his arms as if she weighs nothing at all, staring at me like I’m insane. “Ya don’t know where ya are?”

I shake my head, defeated, which earns me a searing pain that races through my skull. Holding my head, I state, “I totally don’t know where I am. Not at all.” This is surreal, like a news reel on Chernobyl, or a past World War.

Then there’s this woman. Who is she, and why was I holding her hand?

“Can we stop the guessing games, please? Could you tell me?” I stammer.

“Yer in New York. Standin’ on what was the World Trade Center, tower two.”

New York?

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