911

by Katelyn Weingart

Curious by the noise of the television so early in the morning, I pressed my ear against the door. A cool autumn breeze drifted from an open window in the hallway, sending a shiver up my spine. I bit my lip and waited for the wind to stop, tapping my fingers impatiently against my crimson polka-dotted pajama shorts. In an effort to understand the reporter’s muffled words more clearly, I forced my frozen ear closer to the wood of the door. “Attackers… crash plane…” Unable to hear clearly, I nudged the door open and crossed my fingers, hoping that my mom would not notice the time.  My mom's pallid face and watery eyes directed mine straight to the television screen.  

What I saw made me forget the freezing cold winds and the fact that it was 6:30 am in the morning.

A gray line which I recognized as a plane lunged into a gray building and almost immediately left a hole surrounded by red, orange, and yellow flames. Victims ran for their life past the video cameras, screaming like baby birds being chased by a hawk. People flowed out of the burning building, a stream of color. Dark clouds left the entire city in a shadow as they shrouded the sky. The screen flashed to a reporter, whose face, though covered in makeup, looked almost as pale as my mom’s.

Horrified by the footage, I glimpsed up at the wall, with its smooth, undamaged surface, and wondered if that’s what the building on tv had looked like before the crash. Another shiver shot down my spine, but this time not from the cold. Searching for comfort, I lay down on the bed and rested my head on the soft pillow. As I traced the beige stitching with my hand, I silently prayed, hoping everything would be all right.