9/11 Narrative Essay
September 11 2001 Narrative8:30 AM. I am in a meeting with Alliance Consulting CEO 's in Building 1 World Trade Center. We are all discussing booming businesses in the NYC region, getting very excited about a little computer chip processing company that has been getting very high marks on their last quota. All of a sudden, there is a loud whipping sound and the building begins shaking. Just a blink later and my hearing is gone, and I am lying on the ground trying to understand why the only color I see is blood red. I try to stand but realize that my legs are pinned by a 315 pound conference table with a smoked glass top and stainless steel frame. I emit a horrifying shriek, and my coworker Stanley Johnson runs up to me and yells at me to push on three. I can barely understand his terrified voice, but still push as hard as I can when I hear the word "one" come from his blood filled
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mouth. The table gives way and I slide out from underneath it. Stan grabs my shoulder and heaves me over his bloody neck. We both shuffle to the door that was once a beautiful glass creation and walk over the broken glass and make our way to the staircase that is just left of the conference room. This is when I saw my first lifeless body sprawled across the staircase leading to the upper floors, my body goes limp and I fall to the ground only a few inches away from the pale faced mailroom teenager. I lay there paralyzed, not being able to comprehend what kind of act of God could carry out such destruction, such tragedy. Stan - who I thought would get me through this - abandoned me and was already scurrying down the stairs.
I picked myself up with whatever strength I had left, knowing that this was not my time to join my teenage coworker. Hurrying down the staircase covered in broken glass, unknown liquids, and ruined handrails I lost balance many times and fell repeatedly. Glass imbedded in my once very well kept hands, blood and liquids all over my newly purchased pinstriped Barney 's suit I kept pushing myself to get down to the lobby. Only 13 more floors I told myself once I stepped on the 15th floor entrance, more and more motionless bodies on each floor.
Taking each step as fast as I could while being thoughtful for keeping my balance. 7 more floors, 5 more, 2 more, 1 more, I was almost there. Finally, I reach the lobby level and all I see is firefighters, Port Authority police, paramedics, and NYC police. I am hoisted over someone 's shoulder, blood rushes to my head, and I blackout. I am awaken laying facedown on the wide New York sidewalk with a black and neon yellow jacked wrapped around my body by another semi sonic boom followed immediately by an explosion that causes my internal organs to incredibly vibrate. Debris falling all around me, everything on fire, and everything destroyed, the feeling was unreal. This could not be possible I thought to myself, this must be a dream. I feel feet digging into my ribs and wooden heels being jabbed into my back. I struggle to my knees but I am knocked over by another petrified citizen. Once again, I force myself to my knees and I crawl to the nearest vehicle. I grab the door handle and pull myself up, I look around and all I see is darkness, I look up and all I see is fire. The sky is an inferno; the devil himself has come from hell and has taken over Manhattan.
I come back to reality and collect myself and stumble over to a group of U.S.
Marshalls, without a moment 's notice I am thrown into an ambulance that is being shared by 3 victims and taken to St Vincent 's hospital, where I am bandaged up and put on painkillers while a volunteer nurse cleans and disinfects my wounds. I pass out and wake up hours later by another nurse who tells me the bed needs to be used by another victim. I am told to go to the lobby which is filled with injured men, women, and children. Everyone is in shock, everyone with the same glazed eyes, everyone silent. There is once same focus, the television mounted to the corner of the room tuned to wb11. Kaity Tong is on the screen, with a background of a gigantic cloud of smog. The title underneath her waist reads "America Under Attack" in bold red letters. I come to the realization that the cloud of smoke was once the building I worked in. My office, which I spent late nights working at the same wooden desk with my name on the 7 inch desk plate, was now gone. The company that I have given 17 years to, was now
rubble.
I felt sickened at the thought that everything was gone, there was nothing left, not even the gold trimmed pen that Stan gave to me for my 34th birthday. Stan, where was he? He had to be alright, he must have made it out, he was not injured that badly. I prayed that he made it home to his family, I prayed that right this second he was hugging his newborn.
Later that night I was released from the hospital and was taken to my apartment in downtown Brooklyn. I walked into my door which had to be opened by my super since I was stripped of all my clothing and personal belongings once I was admitted into the hospital. I sat down on the red leather loveseat and broke down. The pain of my wounds pulsated simultaneously with my heartbeat, the thoughts of my coworkers dead, their families broken, their friends questioning their whereabouts. Everything hit me all at the same time and once again I blacked out. I was awoken the following afternoon by pure pain. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the prescription medication I was given by the doctor and swallowed a 5mg Vicodin. The pain was slowly relieved, but the mental pain was worse than ever.
A week later I found out that 10 minutes after I was put in the ambulance the South Tower collapsed. Stan was running right past the north side of the tower when it came down, he was never found. His 4 year old son, his newborn baby girl, and his wife of 5 years will live the rest of their lives without him. All my coworkers were killed; I was the only one that was spared.
This tragic event ruined more lives that anyone could ever imagine. Not only for the people that were eradicated in the trade centers, but all the families, friends, and lovers. The one man, without a family, without friends, without lovers was spared. Me.
Works CitedComplete 911 Timeline. 2007. http://www.cooperativeresearch.org/timeline.jsp?timeline=complete_911_timeline&startpos=4100
mouth. The table gives way and I slide out from underneath it. Stan grabs my shoulder and heaves me over his bloody neck. We both shuffle to the door that was once a beautiful glass creation and walk over the broken glass and make our way to the staircase that is just left of the conference room. This is when I saw my first lifeless body sprawled across the staircase leading to the upper floors, my body goes limp and I fall to the ground only a few inches away from the pale faced mailroom teenager. I lay there paralyzed, not being able to comprehend what kind of act of God could carry out such destruction, such tragedy. Stan - who I thought would get me through this - abandoned me and was already scurrying down the stairs.
I picked myself up with whatever strength I had left, knowing that this was not my time to join my teenage coworker. Hurrying down the staircase covered in broken glass, unknown liquids, and ruined handrails I lost balance many times and fell repeatedly. Glass imbedded in my once very well kept hands, blood and liquids all over my newly purchased pinstriped Barney 's suit I kept pushing myself to get down to the lobby. Only 13 more floors I told myself once I stepped on the 15th floor entrance, more and more motionless bodies on each floor.
Taking each step as fast as I could while being thoughtful for keeping my balance. 7 more floors, 5 more, 2 more, 1 more, I was almost there. Finally, I reach the lobby level and all I see is firefighters, Port Authority police, paramedics, and NYC police. I am hoisted over someone 's shoulder, blood rushes to my head, and I blackout. I am awaken laying facedown on the wide New York sidewalk with a black and neon yellow jacked wrapped around my body by another semi sonic boom followed immediately by an explosion that causes my internal organs to incredibly vibrate. Debris falling all around me, everything on fire, and everything destroyed, the feeling was unreal. This could not be possible I thought to myself, this must be a dream. I feel feet digging into my ribs and wooden heels being jabbed into my back. I struggle to my knees but I am knocked over by another petrified citizen. Once again, I force myself to my knees and I crawl to the nearest vehicle. I grab the door handle and pull myself up, I look around and all I see is darkness, I look up and all I see is fire. The sky is an inferno; the devil himself has come from hell and has taken over Manhattan.
I come back to reality and collect myself and stumble over to a group of U.S.
Marshalls, without a moment 's notice I am thrown into an ambulance that is being shared by 3 victims and taken to St Vincent 's hospital, where I am bandaged up and put on painkillers while a volunteer nurse cleans and disinfects my wounds. I pass out and wake up hours later by another nurse who tells me the bed needs to be used by another victim. I am told to go to the lobby which is filled with injured men, women, and children. Everyone is in shock, everyone with the same glazed eyes, everyone silent. There is once same focus, the television mounted to the corner of the room tuned to wb11. Kaity Tong is on the screen, with a background of a gigantic cloud of smog. The title underneath her waist reads "America Under Attack" in bold red letters. I come to the realization that the cloud of smoke was once the building I worked in. My office, which I spent late nights working at the same wooden desk with my name on the 7 inch desk plate, was now gone. The company that I have given 17 years to, was now
rubble.
I felt sickened at the thought that everything was gone, there was nothing left, not even the gold trimmed pen that Stan gave to me for my 34th birthday. Stan, where was he? He had to be alright, he must have made it out, he was not injured that badly. I prayed that he made it home to his family, I prayed that right this second he was hugging his newborn.
Later that night I was released from the hospital and was taken to my apartment in downtown Brooklyn. I walked into my door which had to be opened by my super since I was stripped of all my clothing and personal belongings once I was admitted into the hospital. I sat down on the red leather loveseat and broke down. The pain of my wounds pulsated simultaneously with my heartbeat, the thoughts of my coworkers dead, their families broken, their friends questioning their whereabouts. Everything hit me all at the same time and once again I blacked out. I was awoken the following afternoon by pure pain. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the prescription medication I was given by the doctor and swallowed a 5mg Vicodin. The pain was slowly relieved, but the mental pain was worse than ever.
A week later I found out that 10 minutes after I was put in the ambulance the South Tower collapsed. Stan was running right past the north side of the tower when it came down, he was never found. His 4 year old son, his newborn baby girl, and his wife of 5 years will live the rest of their lives without him. All my coworkers were killed; I was the only one that was spared.
This tragic event ruined more lives that anyone could ever imagine. Not only for the people that were eradicated in the trade centers, but all the families, friends, and lovers. The one man, without a family, without friends, without lovers was spared. Me.
Works CitedComplete 911 Timeline. 2007. http://www.cooperativeresearch.org/timeline.jsp?timeline=complete_911_timeline&startpos=4100