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It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
The elevator lurches to a stop. My elbow bumps the mirrored wall. Too suddenly, the doors swish open, revealing a glossy, glass-ceilinged lobby. My insides are dead to the familiar sounds and colors. Even the novel sight of people wearing jeans and sweaters, laughing and chatting, ignites no feeling in me.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to quiet my gasping breaths. No dice. When the elevator bounces like the door’s about to shut, I step onto the glossy tile.
My feet.
“Oh, FUCK.”
For a minute, I forgot. I step from one foot to the other, trying to escape the pain. I grit my teeth so hard I hear a crack. I groan.
I start to walk.
There’s a row of glass doors over on my left, past the information desks. I tuck my chin against my chest and shuffle toward them. My tongue finds the fault line on my tooth and traces up and down.
When I get through one of the glass doors, into the building’s entry corridor, I’m forced to stop. Pain laps up my calves like streaks of fire. My breathing is so loud, a couple coming through the doors stops to stare. The woman reaches for me, but her husband yanks her arm down.
“Come on, Cindy...”
Good. I don’t need anybody recognizing me. Thinking of me makes me think of him. I squeeze my eyes shut.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I use my shoulder to push through the next door and keep my hands pulled close to my body.
The moment that I step outside is indescribable. The sunlight is so white, the air electric. I forgot the stench of smog. It reaches into my throat, filling my nose with the memory of living. My lungs deflate. My eyes blur as I watch cars file by. Taxis line up by the curb, and people—out, then in. People on the sidewalk. So much movement. Adjusting a hair band, sipping coffee, unzipping a purse.
Purpose and intention. Both feel sharp.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I disappear into the crowd, moving east. I’ve thought about this so many times, I know where I’m going, despite my current state.
I pull the jagged air into my lungs. Cement is cold beneath my aching feet. I pull my jacket closer.
I’m trying to move fast, but I’m so unsteady. People stare at me—of course they do. I look fresh out of a war zone.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My mind swims: drinking in the chaos of Manhattan; reliving what just happened. I can’t believe I’m really out here. Christ, I’m almost scared.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I glance up the street and back behind me, looking for... what? A police officer? A frantic civilian?
One foot in front of the other... Keep on moving, Kellan. My lungs make a sound like tissue paper. The inside of my nose and throat is raw—raw and so painful, I’m starting to tremble and sweat.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I think of what I’m running from. A moan escapes. A woman in front of me turns to look at me. Her eyes widen. She spins around, lengthens her strides.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
