Page 43 of Rushed

Keenan

September 11, 2001

As the shock set in, my whole body decided to shut down. First my legs give out, then my arms twitch and tingle, as my stomach rebels against whatever it was I’d eaten that day. I swear I was seeing quadruple.

“Woah, why don’t you sit,” the angel says, turning to grab my arm. He’s trying to hold me up, even as he holds onto the prone body in his arms. “Ya’ve had a lot tossed at ya.”

He’s right. I was just pulled out of the debris of a collapsed building. A building I don’t even remember being in.

Sirens blare—squealing and cursing their pain—as dust motes cover every inch of the rotating red and blue lights. I realize there is so much more going on than just me.

I’ve always imagined firemen and cops with pristine uniforms, smoke-stained edges to their cheeks with a quick smile. Their torn coats are slunk across scraps of metal drying in the air, while smoke filters up from piles of debris. Gun straps are laid out on the laps of worn out defeated souls, as they rest their heads in their hands in defeat. Business women and men wander aimlessly too. There’s no direction or pattern to their escape, it’s just away. Away from the smell of burning plaster, sodden rubber, and paint. Away from death and destruction.

“I think ya should get checked out too. You must have hit that head of yer’s pretty hard. Do ya remember anythin’?”

“No, I don’t remember being in there, how long I’ve been here, or even why I was here,” I say very emphatically. “If the pounding in my head would stop its incessant beat, I’m sure I could catch a breath.”

“Okay. Let’s start towards that triage post, and I’ll ask ya some simple questions. If ya answer correctly, I’ll get that kewpie doll from the fair for ya.” A beautiful smile flits across his face, lighting up his dimples, which immediately deflates my crassness. It’s hard not to notice he’s gorgeous, even with that torn shirt and unconscious woman draped over his lovely frame.

“I’m sure my dinged head can wait. I think there’s others more desperate to be helped. I’ll brood and wait my turn.” I rise from the fairly uncomfortable makeshift seat, and tempt my weak feet once more.

The littered ground is difficult to traverse with the numerous shards of glass, broken metal, and splintered wood that tear into my ripped, stockingless feet.

“Did ya hear me?”

“Pardon?”

“Do ya remember yer name?”

“Of course I know…” I think? Maybe not. Shit. “Uh, nope. I’m drawing a blank here. Next question please, Alex.” I remember a gameshow line, but I can’t remember my name. Now that’s fucked up. How do I not know my own name? I’ve heard of people having short term amnesia after a traumatic event, I just never thought I’d join that exclusive club.

“Watch yer step,” he warns, as he pulls the lady closer to his cheek, reaching for my hand. “I’d hate for ya to hurt yerself more than ya already are.”

“Well that’s very chivalrous of you,” I say cynically.

“Oh, don’t flatter yerself. I just don’t think I’ve trained enough to carry two injured, albeit beautiful women. After all, how would others take that? Here I am, hogging all the damsels in distress.” He gives me a wicked grin. Fuck, those dimples are magnificent. Darn the angel. He makes it hard to not enjoy his powerful arrogance, along with that godlike body and face. Even with the cuts and multiple bruises, he seems flawless.

“All right, question two. Where do ya live?”

I think about it as I climb across piles of littered paperwork. The only saving grace for these feet is soft surfaces.

Where do I live? Do I live here in the city? Again, nothing pops to mind.

I’m not sure? I know I always dreamed of moving to a large city. But do I live here, do I work here, or was I just visiting?

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“Well, do ya remember anythin’ about yer life? What did ya do fer fun? How about family? A pet? Places ya’ve been? Try and scroll through that lovely head and see if ya can come up with anythin’ that feels correct.”

“You think you’re funny, huh? What a lovely head this is with knots, fuzz, and dirt stuck all over. Let’s not even mention the facials I’ll need for months to correct this haggard look.” Pushing over a smashed office chair, I try to not trip on further scattered office furniture.

“So that deflection is a direct hit. No. You remember nothin’ else. Well I can’t keep callin’ ya lovely head, so ya need a name.”

“Fine, but nothing flowery or petlike, either. I don’t think I could handle a name like Stacey, Daisy, or Sunny.”

“No. Ye’re definitely not a Sunny.”

We trudge on quietly for a little while, traversing the mounds and mounds of ruins that are spread out endlessly. As we approach the triage station, the crowds are gathering in size. Where there was no one, now it seems that they’ve risen out of the debris in waves. Each are distracted by their own slow procession to the tent city. It’s like a group of lemmings walking to their unavoidable point. The most in need seem to be filtering inside the quickest, carried on makeshift pallets, while the scrapes and bumps are clustering around with water bottles and torn clothes. All are awestruck as they look back to where they were, myself included.

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