Sirens.
A police officer clad in black is the first I see on the scene.
Lights blindingly flash bright red.
A fire truck sits on the curb adjacent to me.
"Are you okay?"
The world is a kaleidoscope of colors in fractured pieces.
No I'm not.
I can't answer. I can't speak. My mouth doesn't work.
"Can you hear me?"
My head manages to jerk downward with the semblance of a nod.
"You need to slow down your breathing or you'll pass out."
I wish I would.
Then maybe I wouldn't remember it so clearly.
I can barely register my surroundings, but hear the sound of someone's crying and noisy vehicles filling the air.
That's me. I'm the one crying.
My chest feels like it's been stuffed in a vase. And then someone punched me to shatter it. Because I feel a pain exploding in my chest.
Panic attack.
I can remember thinking vaguely as I struggle to remain conscious. I think I'm going to pass out. I can't get any oxygen in my lungs. The binder of papers gripped in my arms falls loose from my grasp to the floor.
"Are you okay?"
They repeat.
It's been two weeks.
My eyes go out of focus and gloss over.
I see crushed metal.
Smoke rising from the floor.
I smell gasoline.
The cold air biting my nose.
I'm choking.
"Are you okay?"
Is all anyone ever seems to ask.
My body is sore. I can feel every bruise implanted on my skin.
I can't sleep with visions of my worst nightmare coming to life.
All I ever want to do is break down in tears from mental and physical exhaustion.
"Are you okay?"
I can't say that I am.