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Memoirs of a Post Modern America Chapter 3 "Mornings" (part 2)

posted 10/14/2008 10:48:19 PM |
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"I don't understand how you drink it black." You look down and realize that you had been standing there staring into the coffee can for quite a while, "You look terribly confused, here give me that." You look up and into the face of the female firefighter staring back at you. Your face reddens as she takes the can to finish what you so obviously had forgotten. You stumble out of the kitchen and towards the TV room when you hear her again, "Coffee?" You flash a fake grin as you grab the mug, mindlessly left on the counter and walk to the armchair in the corner. Last night's sports recaps were playing on the TV and the guys were teasing each other about whose team had won. "You see that game last night?" "Um, yeah, it was crazy…" You stare at your coffee as if something was floating in it. The truth is, you didn't see the game, and you really have no idea what sport they were even discussing. "Hey man, what's your team anyways?" You stare blankly then cough something about having to go take care of 'that thing' before you hop up and walk away. The rest of the room's occupants don't seem to notice and you walk into the bathroom and shut the door. Putting your hand on the wall, you watch your coffee swirl around and down the drain of the sink. You silently pray that this Christmas season would be the same as every other year but last. Outside the door, you hear the morning news…
"Its 9:30 pm and I'm standing outside of the John Herald Theatre. It appears as if some type of explosion has gone off setting the building ablaze." It took a minute for you to realize what he was saying before you swung open the bathroom door to look at the screen. "This only happened just a few seconds ago and the fire department is not yet on site as…" The rest of the commentary was drowned out by the blaring alarms in the station. Everyone ran to their stations but you had beaten them all, scrambling to get your gear on. You were on the engine screaming for everyone to hurry and dialing her number into your cell. Once… Twice… The entire agonizing ride there. When you got to the theatre, you were the first on the ground before the truck had screeched to a halt. You were the first in the building, chopping the blazing wood and fallen curtains. You ran down the passageways and were far ahead of everyone when you reached the main hall. When you opened the door, another explosion had knocked you out. When you opened your eyes all you could see was fire and all you could hear was your locater blaring, letting your team know that you were down. Your eyes slowly closed…
Your eyes pop open again, brought back to the now with a rapid banging on the bathroom door. "Let's go!" The sirens in the station were going off, the first call of the day. You run to your truck just like that night, dressing quicker and hopping on the engine before anyone. The trucks scream out onto the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The dust burns your eyes, so you close them for a second and listen to the sirens.
When you had opened your eyes, you saw a bright white light. It faded quickly as a blue masked face was bending over you and saying in a voice much too loudly, "C'mon buddy, don't space out on me now!"
You grab the hose and hop off the truck dragging it to the shopping center. A car had driven right through the front doors, exploding and blowing a tiny grocery store into a blackened carnage…
There was a burning sensation on various parts of your body and you had looked down to see where the fire had made it through various parts of your suit. You had tried to sit up but something was holding you still. "Hang on buddy," the mask said. "Give it a minute..."
Suddenly free, your arms reach for your hatchet to pull aside a twisted grocery cart. In front of you, a man lays smoldering on a pile of what looks like shelves. You kneel down to check for vitals, the ones that inside you know aren't there. As you turn the man's head to reveal a mortal wound, you see a slight flutter of movement at his feet. Turning quickly, you see a woman's face feebly lifting and looking at you with confusion.
"What's that bud?" she had said. "Where is she?" "Where is who?" Your body quivered with the effort to speak. You licked your lips and took a deep breath; a little too deep for your burning lungs and you coughed violently. "Help her!"
You look at the woman for a second before understanding the command and scooting down to survey her situation. She has a sharp piece of metal protruding from her back, and is covered from head to toe in blood. You grab your first aid kit from your side, and attempt to stop the most prevalent wound while screaming, "Medic!" and looking around you. As you close your eyes and utter a quick prayer, the paramedics rush in and work feverishly on the now unconscious woman. You quickly jump up and run to the next victim, an old man, struggling to crawl out of the wreckage. Your mind is screaming, "Not again! Please, not again…"

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Memoirs of a Post Modern America Chapter 3 "Mornings" (part 2)