In a matter of two years, I’ve lost my entire direct bloodline—a survivor of a very personal war, but a war nonetheless. A war with only casualties, never victories. A battle against an invisible enemy with no known weaknesses or vulnerabilities that I am able to attack.
I found myself covered in ash and residue, like a World Trade Center survivor, at the bottom of a bomb crater staring up at unfathomably high walls. The talcum fine ashy grey dust covers my entire body creating an indistinguishable camouflage against the raw carnage and devastation of the blast. The only indication of life are the tiny rivers and tributaries created by the tears streaming down my face connected to eyes that have seen the horror but cannot yet comprehend what has just happened. My ears are ringing, and as I stare up, I am surrounded by faces I should recognize but just can’t connect the dots. Something has changed.
They are looking down upon me, mouthing words I cannot hear. I try desperately to read their lips, but I am in a foreign land. The persistent ringing in my ears—my only soundtrack.
I am alive. Somehow, I am alive.
A distress beacon wells up from inside me, repeating four words over and over again: “Why Me? What Now? Why Me? What Now? Why Me? What Now?”… over and over again.
I stare at the walls of the crater.
“Why Me?” I am the black sheep. I didn’t follow the rules they set. “What Now?” Holidays are blinking in and out of existence, a flashback of getting lost in a crowded concert venue when our hands linked were inexplicably torn apart and a sea of grown-ups swallow Mom whole, alone.
“Why Me?” I don’t deserve to live. Give them back. I’ll be the hostage to their darkest secrets, their biggest fears. They have done so much more and deserve so much better. Allow me to be the martyr.
“What Now?” A blast of cold air and a flash of David’s face as he rolls over the cornice into a sea of white. I look over the edge, and he has vanished into thin air. I sit alone in an oxygen-deprived mountain top. I wish the ringing would stop. I look up: the faces. What are they trying to say to me? Damn this constant buzzing in my ears.
“Why Me?” I gaze at my hands: They are caked with gray mud; all my joints hurt as I flex my fingers. What have these hands ever created that was remotely of significance in the grand scheme of things? I am flush with anger. I am terror incarnate. I am rage, hate, envy, jealousy all encompassed. I ball them into fists but have no opponent with which to spar. I drop them to my sides defeated. They feel as if they are holding one-hundred pound weights. I grip tighter. While I cannot lift, I will not let go. I must not let go of the weight no matter what.
“What Now?” I hang my head low and stare where my feet should be. I can only see the tops of my boots. My tears are flooding the crater. The ash and tears are creating a primitive concrete. I must move my legs. I cannot get stuck at the bottom of this abysmal pit. I pull up one leg, the vacuum of the mud and gravity opposing every effort I make. I catch a glimmer of something just beneath the surface of the mud as my foot comes up. I must have whatever this is in the mud—I know in my heart of hearts I desire it more than anything in the world. I let go of the weight in my right hand. “Goodbye, Mom,” I whisper. As I open my right hand, the weight falls into the mud, leaving little air bubbles burping up as it sinks to the bottom of the pit. My fingers close around the object. My left hand still heavy with the weight, I am careful to keep my balance. So important not to fall now. I have just given up everything in my right hand for this. My hands find the hard edges, so familiar, a bound spine a smooth cover, my index finger brushing against recessed letters… I cannot make them out.
I’m looking now, and the concrete is begging to form creating a surface with which I place my muddy boot on. I apply light pressure and test the firmness, all the time my left hand grasping the weight like a barbell, my right arm extended out for balance. Must not fall: To fall would be to lose all of whatever it is I have left. All my might pulling on my left leg wishing it out of the mud—the mud doing everything in its power to hold me back.
“Why Me?” I feel a tug on my left hand. It’s trying to pull me back. I tighten my grip and shift my center of gravity forward. My boot comes free, and I sink slightly in the recently set concrete. It’s like a sandbar at low tide, perfectly untouched. My boots leaving their waffle print with every step I take. The heel deeper than the toe, little droplets of mud skittering and leaving tell tale directional droplets towards the edge of the crater. Firmer footing now. Step-by-awful-step I carefully place the next foot knowing at any moment the ground can give way beneath either of my feet.
The weight of my left hand is constantly tugging in the opposite direction. It feels different now… I can feel the small hand of a child, gripping with all its might, being forcefully led, its tiny fingers not quite making it around my hand. It comes in waves of effort like a powerful fish that hook has recently been set. I am reeling one moment, no resistance whatsoever, and then have a sudden surge of energy as it takes off in the opposite direction of the boat, just clamoring to be free. Gently now. Keep the hook set—don’t let the line break. Let some line out, but always keep a little tension.
I can feel the mud drying on my face. I can feel it cracking when my face muscles with every labored step. Tears streaming, blurring my vision, but I keep the edge of the crater in my sight, focusing on a single point to guide me like I was taught. Don’t look back. I’m whispering with every labored step. “It’s you and I now.” One foot in front of the next. Breathing is harder now. “We can be alright.” There’s the tug on my left arm again. “Just hold on to what we know is true.” My left forearm is burning, veins clearly defined as my blood stream is trying to provide enough oxygen for the lactic acid buildup. “You and I now.” My heart is pounding, every joint aching, the tera firma more stable now. Little rocks have formed, and I can feel the crunch of the rocks under my feet, leaving little dust clouds. I can no longer see the top of the crater, but there’s a more substantial incline, leading me to believe I’ve found the edge. We’re almost there. “Though it’s cold inside.” The hand in my hand is stronger—it’s forcibly pulling against me now, as if gravity flipped horizontally every step a battle in and amongst itself. My boots give in the loose gravel, and I feel myself slipping back every few steps. “Just hold on to what we know is true.” Come on legs, just a little more now. “Feel the tide turning.” Everything is going to be okay… I’ve got my cadence, my second wind, the ringing is subsiding. I can hear voices in the distance.
And then a blinding explosion of pain my shoulder. It’s as if I’ve been drawn and quartered: The war horses just took off at a full gallop in four different directions, every limb on fire. I feel my equilibrium leaving me, my internal gyroscope is failing. The impact is jarring… my head whiplashes back and I feel my skull strike a rock. White light, bile collects in the back of my throat singeing my vocal chords. I’m sliding backwards, sharp rocks tearing and snagging on my clothes, scratching jagged cuts in me wherever skin is exposed. I’m being dragged back to the hole, the hand in my hand trying to shake me loose or take me with it. It doesn’t care either way—it just wants to be back in the center of that hole. Faster and faster, rocks are blurs of grey. I gulp for air. Dust is collecting in my mouth every time I try to scream out for help. My legs are flailing behind me, unable to dig in no matter how hard I press my heels into the gravel.
I can feel cold mud now collecting in my collar, oozing down my back. How can this be, we were so close. I’m being dragged more. On my back, I am able to look up. I see the deepest blue sky peppered with billowing clouds. I look left and right… it’s endless monochromatic gray, no contrast. Just look up, please look up, good god just please look up.
My left hand is caked in the terrible viscous mud, and it’s becoming harder to hold on. I can feel it squeezing out between my fingers. The harder I clench, the more I feel my grip slipping. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip with all my strength, willing my hand to be a vise-grip, a clamp, something. If I can just stop the momentum. I feel fingertips against my fingertips… I squeeze as if I was about to play a game of inverted thumb wrestling. Fingernails are cutting into the joints of my fingers, and I can feel a warm stream of blood and mud in my palm. “Goodbye David”
Unconsciousness.
When I come back to, I am on my back staring into that same blue sky. I lie for a bit watching the clouds shifting their phantom Rorschach shapes, all the while my mind trying to make sense of senseless shapes. I turn my head to the right, all my muscles ache. In my right hand is a leather bound book, its cover worn but not tattered. The edges of the pages are gilded gold, and the contrast against the grey create little gold glints and reflections in the wet mud. The lettering stamped into the cover spell out the word “JOURNAL” in block print. I recognize it immediately. It’s a journal I had bought for Mom several years back. She never had the chance to fill its pages. I feel the lump in my throat swell and my eyes blur from the welling tears. I turn my head reluctantly to the left. I feel my hand balled into a fist clenching something. I open my hands: There is a black and silver pen. On the clip are the words “David V. Price” in cursive.
“What Now?” I think to myself.
