story by . . . Staff Writer 1

“..could give us some insight as to how far the effects of the blast have spread and how far they could still reach. With us now is Professor James Cathke from the University of Washington Department of Global Health. Good afternoon Professor and thank you for joining us today.”

“TV off” I grumble, half asleep.

“Thank you for having me, and I would just like to say my heart and the prayers of my family go out to..”

“TV off!”

With a click the screen blinks to black and the sound of silence fills the room. I had left it on all night again. I can’t seem to turn it off for more than a few hours at a time these days. No one can, really. I turn my head and glance at the clock. 10:13am?

“Good afternoon Professor” I mutter to myself, flipping the covers to the side of the bed. “There is more than one time zone in this country last time I checked.”

I swing my legs over and sit at the edge of the bed, staring at the blackened screen in a trained stupor. In the midst of this short yet peaceful moment of consciousness I don’t ponder much of anything. The past 16 days has drained me of my hunger for thought. I am just blank, like the screen behind my bedroom wall. For a few seconds I consider plopping my head on my pillow for a few more hours of much needed rest. I see the reflection of my window curtains in the glass. That is when I make the mistake. I focus. At that moment the hundreds of recently engrained images flood my brain, clearly displayed upon the black glass upon which I stare. My reality sets in and the numbness is replaced with a flurry of brain activity. No wonder people are turning to alcohol since they bombed us. We just want to escape reality now that reality is heavier than anything we have ever experienced.

“Every day this week I woke up with a few seconds of peace, only to remember everything all over again. Makes me sick to think what we have to live with now.”

I rise from the bed and shuffle towards the window. The sun is glaring through the curtains. Birds that started singing when I passed out a few hours earlier are still outside yelling at each other. I think a little harder as my brain starts to wake up.

“I can’t remember any birds singing on that day. It’s like they knew what was going on over the horizon.”

I look up at the horizon and remember watching it that night after the news got out, wondering what the sky held for us the next day, and how many of them were looking at the sky for the last time the night before.

Not much can be said about that dreadful moment sixteen days ago. For me, just one thought about August 12^th, 2036 triggers a blank-faced daydream that reminds me of an old rickety roller coaster. You know its going to be scary, but once it starts it’s too late to get off. The thought trail always lead to dark, painful places. Even more haunting is your brain constantly reminding you that what you are daydreaming about is real, solid, and all around you. I will be living in this nightmare for the rest of my life. We all will. As time goes on we will get more used to what happened. My father told me about how his grandpa lived before and after World War II, and he had lived before and after the attacks on September 11^th, 2001. I think living within 1000 miles of a nuclear blast is going to leave its own lasting mark on my life.

“I wish I could forget like those damn birds forgot. But no, I must be reminded every day by the tears of my neighbors on both sides of my house. Hard to miss all the flowers and candles, flags on every car, and ribbons tied to every object in town. Strange how no one can really grieve because everyone is grieving all at once. Even I lost an aunt, an uncle, and four cousins I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. There is still no closure for anyone, anywhere. Every house on my street is mourning someone or some family who lived down there. How can you comfort those around you when your own life is affected so horribly? Then there are the countless people that will never be on TV again. People that live all throughout California have relatives near ground zero, but even the farthest corners of the country watch TV shows, many of which just got cancelled indefinitely due to death. One day they were there in our living rooms, or our movie theaters. Then the next day, they’re all gone. We are being forced as human beings to accept it somehow. I checked out that online support group Weeping Earth but there was just too much going on. The only way I can cope is to watch one of the two dozen news channels ready to give my brain a rest, if you can call it that. It’s not like there is anything else on. All the talk shows have shutdown and baseball cancelled the rest of the season. Can’t argue with them, they lost two teams that day.”

Dang. I just rode that old depression roller coaster for the 1000^th time. I’m starting to feel sick.

Like clockwork, my addiction to modern electronic stimuli floods back in the form a plasma craving. Wow, I almost made it two minutes with it off. But I need to know the latest updates, and once in a while good news pops up. Yesterday was particularly bad in the memory department. I saw new footage just released, from a security cam that survived the shockwave. Everything just flew away like someone had picked up the board and flung off the pieces. I feel sorry for the guys who work in the control rooms of those news studios. They probably can’t sleep either.

I can’t handle much of the super depressing stuff without getting angry at something. Too many people died and countless others’ lives have been changed dramatically. As a nation we are united, but fragile. Anger is getting the best of us domestically, while overseas our military has “unwavering support” from our allies. Within 72 hours of the August 12^th attacks over one hundred locations around the world were precision bombed by United States stealth drones. I’m sure they’re not telling us everything, but still today we have no real answers as to who did this.

Tearing thoughts that rattle around my brain without signs of rest once again send me towards the flickering attention stealer known as the television. I fall onto my bed and bury my head in my pillow, then raise it enough to say “TV on.” The screen whirrs with electric current and a picture comes to focus. I grab my phone off the nightstand and start flipping through the channels.

I stop in the sports channels. NFL camps and preseason schedules were cancelled right after the attack. Sure enough, now it is announced the whole season will be suspended indefinitely. I’m sure on the East Coast they’re saying, “come on, L.A. doesn’t even have an NFL team!”

So many commercials on TV last few weeks.  I never knew there were so many charities out there. Now they all need everyone to give. Give blood, share your homes, adopt a child victim. It’s so much. We all gave 16 days ago when our lives were turned upside down, shaken, and then thrown into a pit of lions. I would give anything to go back just one month. Now our lives are dictated by one action. One flicker of a day and certainties became uncertainties, whole communities are lost, and I find my nation divided by fear and hate, ready and wanting to strike.

Next stop is All Weather. This channel has become my favorite in the past few days. Mostly it has been updating us on the winds and what direction they are in, where they are going. It sure beats stories of churches packed with memorials and caskets, or roads still blocked off by military vehicles. The sadness can get to you. That in itself has become a big story. News that is so bad for so long it causes depression. The TV actually telling us to get some fresh air once in awhile.

Through sheer exhaustion my appetite for info succumbs to heavy eyelids. I close my eyes and drift back into another light sleep. I dream of things that aren’t disfigured, dead, scarred for life, or horribly burned. I dream of my life before it became a spec in a sea of sorrow. I do not ask what will come of us or how long we have to wait before things get like they were before. I am at peace.

1 Comment »

1. Hi,

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   Darren Heel

   Comment by discodaug — September 16, 2009 @ 6:52 am

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