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I am careful to watch the men walk out the front door, proud of themselves. Unworried about the backlash because, as they told us, they are the lords of this city.
The woman next to me has passed out; I reach over to make sure she is still breathing. When I know she is, I get up; I hold my water bottle in my hand, shaking with nausea; there are at least five people ripping at their skin to survive. I am clumsy and try to help the wounded with a few splashes from my bottle. But it isn’t enough. I start to scream, but the worst part is, I know I can’t help them.
The consequences of these men are not inevitable; they are dismissed because of the contaminated cruelty of their spirits.
Only two survive the burning. The rest of us suffer as witnesses instead of burn victims.
When the incident hits the news, we are reminded that there were not meant to be survivors; the evildoers simply ran out of time. A cryptic message they left behind for us to find. A reminder we weren’t safe; we weren’t ever going to be again.
Once the paramedics check me over, I am hysterical, so bad that I feel the gasoline on my skin burning me. I panic; I scratch at my arms to get it off. I try to tear out my hair because it’s on fire. I smell it everywhere. In my heart, it ruins me, plagues me. I am unclean from this terror attack.
They take me to the hospital to sedate me. When I woke up, the woman lying on the ground next to me was on the other side of the room in her own bed. She stares out the window; her hair is damp. I don’t call out to her. I just watch.
The police want answers, but we have nothing to give. Our voices don’t work against the shock we feel. Luckily, a few locals were in the lobby on the floor near us and were able to give more details than we could offer.
Before we left the hospital, I learned the woman and her husband were on their honeymoon. I tried to figure out where the man was because he wasn’t next to her. It is only when I return to the States; that they show the pictures of the victims who didn’t survive; I realize we watched her new husband die right in front of our eyes.
For days I spend my time focused on her trauma more than mine. On Instagram, the last photo she posted was her and her husband kissing on the beach. I remember her husband putting his hands up, trying to diffuse the situation as others hid behind him.
I can’t answer the phone, I don’t know who calls, but I can’t bear to speak. Rachelle comes over, but I don’t let her in. I tell her I can’t talk now, maybe not ever. She leaves food outside my door, flowers, chocolates. Anything to coax me to open the door. But I physically can’t. My fingers won’t let me wrap around the knob long enough to twist and pull.
The physical strength isn’t there; even my willpower has seemed to go into hiding. It’s safer than existing right now. It is safer to stay enclosed in a place I know. Even though I can’t open the door, I abide by it. I sit there, with my knees to my chest, waiting for them to come back.
But days go by, I remind myself I am in Colorado, not Brazil. But my mind doesn’t believe me, and it controls my body. So we stay situated against the door, next to my coat closet. When I get too tired to keep guard, I lay on my side in front of the door and sleep but don’t dream.
On the morning of the third-week post the attack, I wake up to a red robin bird pecking at my window while another sits on my balcony. I lift my head barely to see them. They have come to say good morning, but I can’t tell them to go away.
I crawl over to the window and watch them fly away. The sun is bright, but it does not hurt me. I lift a shaky hand and feel the warmth against my palm. I wait there until it shifts its position in the sky, and I move along until it disappears back tonight.
The food I have nibbled on is minimal, just enough to satisfy my hunger. Everything is bland, so it doesn’t matter what goes in my mouth; I don’t taste a thing.
It’s past midnight, at least the clock on the wall says. I get up to find some water and chug two glasses. I walk to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. The steam on the shower covers the glass, and I finally have the strength to stare at myself. There is no me there; I blend in with the fog and belong.
I take a shower because I got my period, or I wouldn’t have bothered at all. Hot water hits my bones, and it is a painful punishment. I step out of the stream and then back in. I lean against the side of the wall; I condemn my weak legs from trembling. The tears come, and I hate each and every one of them. I have to sit back down on the shower floor. My feet ache, I don’t feel my body, but I know I have lost weight enough to see my ribs. My fingers loop around a wrist, and they overlap.
I give myself one more week to mope around. After those seven days, I informed myself that I would get dressed in fresh clothes every day. I will eat three meals, brush my teeth, brush my hair. I will sleep in my bed or on the couch, not on the floor. I will do the bare minimum until I have conquered the regular tasks.
Rachelle doesn’t give up; she comes daily banging on my door.
“If you don’t open this door, Phoebe, I will call the fire department or police to break down your door. I better not find you decomposing in there.” Her voice on the other side of the door isn’t joking.
I laugh a little at the morbid joke.
I put my head to the door; I tap three times.
“Phoebe?” She tries the knob, but it is still locked.
“I’m not ready yet, Elle,” I say as loud as I can without hurting my ears. It’s a low volume, but I know she hears it because she stops trying to open the door. My throat is a little scratchy from not using it.
“Okay, I made you meatloaf and fried potatoes. I’ll leave them by your door.” I hear her put the plate down and start to walk away. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. Take your time; I love you, Phoebe. I am so glad you are alive.” I can hear the sob in her voice, and I feel guilty for making her worry about me.
I tap three more times to let her know I hear her. She leaves, and I go to the couch where my backpack has sat on my coffee table for too long, mocking me.
It is better to get it done now. I wrap a towel around my face and nose, hoping I won’t get a whiff of the smell I ignored on the plane on the way home.
I unzip the pocket and pull out my items; I grab a garbage bag and go through what I can live without, which is pretty much everything. My clothes, my toothbrush, a few books, and a notebook. I throw away the silk scarf I bought for Rachelle. I toss pens, wrappers, everything, and eventually, the backpack itself.
Luckily, my camera bag was upstairs in my hotel room when it all happened. Or I wouldn’t think twice about dumping it in the trash.
