{ONC SHORTLISTED/ROUND 2 AMBASSADOR PICK}
Author, Andrew Anderson isn't prepared to mourn his child. Thus, he simply wills all grief away. But he can't keep the act up forever. When the writer finds himself waking up every morning in a new decade of...
The writer didn't remember how he ended up squished against the wall holding the limp corpse of his sixteen-year-old son, humming a French lullaby, and staring at New York City through the gaping hole in the wall.
He remembered fireworks, the angry sounds of sizzles and pops through the walls and outside the windows. The sounds built to a forte before engulfing the simple lobby in an exposition of heat and noise.
He remembered it raining hot rocks from the ceiling, dust swirling around the atmosphere.
He remembered waking up on the cold concrete that holds up his place of work. His head brushing against some ugly carpet that vaguely reminded him of sandpaper.
He remembered Peter.
Peter?
Peter.
Oh god, his sweet little boy. His child had looked at him when the fireworks went off in the walls. His eyes were wide, and his breath hitched. Peter was afraid. He was so scared, and the writer had vowed never to let the boy be so petrified.
Perhaps, that's why he opened his eyes when he did. Perhaps, the fatherly instinct to protect his kid with any strength he had in him is why he chose to live. It would've been easier to down and die, but he didn't.
All the man saw upon opening his eyes was black and gray nothingness. The room where he would laugh and eat lunch was scarred and stained. The air that once was clean and breathable was now thick and palpable ashen—the sounds of the workplace now replaced by mournful moans, cries, and coughs.
With a godly surge of determination, the writer pushed himself up to a seated position and tried to focus his weary eyes just enough to distinguish the shadowy figures around him.
He recognized a woman, the receptionist, her head smashed in and her body contorted as if she's been thrown against the wall. Another man, almost unrecognizable with all the blood pooling beneath him. He spotted an intern lying on the floor and whining in pain.
The writer couldn't move. Perhaps it was the fear. Perhaps it was the injures. So, the man looked around the room and croaked, "Peter?"
Unsure if the sound left his mouth, he tried again, "Pete..." the sound came out a whisper and died on his lips.
From deep inside him, the writer found the strength to move. He tried to push himself to his feet, only to stumble and collapse, sharp pain spiking through his body. He found himself on the ground, white waves splashing in his vision.
When lucidity came back, the writer's eyes focused in on the smashed wall across from him. Rays of setting sunlight poked through the lines of skyscrapers, making the blackened walls around him filtered pink and red.
All around him, glowing embers floated like glowing dandelion seeds. He focused in on one and watched it gracefully drift to the floor, landing next to an ashen hand. It was a hand he'd seen before. It belonged to a person he knew.
"Peter!"
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The writer stumbled on his hands and knees, falling next to the sixteen-year-old, who was in a lumped ball on his side. Hardly coherent, the poor father didn't know what to do, his hands hovering over the body before touching his shoulder and lightly nudging him onto his back.
Somehow, the child's eyes were open, unfocused, and looking around. His mouth mumbled something unrecognizable. Still, it offered some sense of relief for the writer.
"Hey, kiddo," he breathed. The words met no response, just a soft hum. The writer ran a hand down the child's cheek, "I know."
The writer didn't remember when he realized they were dying. Perhaps it was when his son began a series of wet coughs. Perhaps it was when the boy closed his eyes. Perhaps it was when the writer realized what his child was trying to say: it was an old lullaby from Paris that was sung by the elder's mother and her mother before her.
The man didn't shed a tear until he heard the song. He was thrown back to his childhood home in Pennsylvania, watching his mother rock her grandbaby to sleep. It was a tune that brought generations of children comfort in their times of pain.
So, when the son lost the strength to murmur the lyrics by himself, the writer pulled him into his arms as if he was still a child and hummed for him. There was a part of him that refused to process the fact that his world was ending. There was another part that knew it was true.
Grief is heavy. If the writer would let go now, follow his son, there would be no reason to confront it. He liked that idea.
So, the writer sat against the wall, holding his broken child in his arms, and tried to find peace in the world around him. He disassociated, waiting to fall asleep, and never wake up.
The world wouldn't grant him the pleasure. Eventually, the writer was able to recognize the sirens getting closer. He could hear heavy footsteps in the building. At the thought of being rescued, the wave of grief, loss, loneliness, and despair came crashing over him.
Simply, It was too much.
The writer, who had crafted so many realities before, strayed away from his own, wanting desperately to hold onto something different.
Watching the red sun disappear behind the backdrop of his city, the writer breathed a simple command...
