#11.0
I awaken to the sound of gravel shifting beneath my body as I struggle to gain consciousness. The rocks are jagged and sharp, and I'm sure I'm bringing myself closer to a literal death of a thousand cuts every time I move an arm, but I'm not concerned about that right now. At least I can feel something. I should treasure that, I tell myself.
The sky above my head is burnt a hazy red-orange, oppressive like the maw of some unspeakable monster come to devour the whole of existence. The sun is close to setting somewhere in the distance towards which I can't turn my head, its last rays wavering in and out of my vision.
I realize that my right fist is clenched around something. No, the fingers are only loosely wrapped around whatever they're holding, but now that I turn my attention to it, my hand tightens in response. It feels wrong, as if I shouldn't be grasping this object so tightly. Pain? There isn't any, but there's supposed to be, isn't there? Whatever this is, it has the same sharp edges as the pebbles I'm lying on right now, but neither of them seem to hurt. I slowly lift my arm ever so slightly into the air and turn my glance toward it to see what I'm clinging to.
Sunlight casts off of it in all directions, obscuring my sight, but I can still work out what it is against my unfocused vision.
A fragment of glass.
"You made it out in one piece?"
Her voice is calm and measured, though I don't know if this composure is forced for the sake of appearances or a true reflection of an unshakable core. I can't move to see her face and try to figure one way or the other. Really, I'm not even sure if anyone is actually here with me -- I didn't hear any footsteps moving through the gravel, and now she'd have to be stock-still to not make any noise. But never mind any of that. I'd prefer to believe that someone is here beside me, so I will.
I struggle to push air out of my lungs and form some answer, but before I can sound out my first consonant, she suddenly interrupts -- "no need," she says. "Your thoughts are more than enough for me. It was supposed to be a rhetorical question, anyway." I hear a brief inward giggle, maybe illusory.
My thoughts? Is she peering at my mind? In any case, it doesn't seem fair to me that she should be the only one speaking, so I put words to voice anyway.
"What" -- my throat catches, perhaps realizing how stupid this question is sounding even before I've finished it -- "happened?"
"Can you stand? Or at least sit up?"
It's not a reply to my unease, but I strain the listless muscles of my back in an attempt to pull it upright regardless. My eyes move from staring upward, down past the mountainous horizon, and come to rest on -- no. I can't call this restful in any sense of the word.
There's a diagonal gash torn through what I now recognize as the building beneath me, stopping inches from my feet. Twisted bits of metal are jammed harshly into collapsed concrete. Water runs from burst pipes as sparks jolt from torn electrical lines. White chunks of drywall appear in the midst, stained red with blood. Mine. It has to be, but --
My legs and feet are completely intact. I loosely turn my arms around in the air -- not a wound in sight. The glass shard I still hold in my hand should long have pierced my skin with how tightly I'm clenching it, but there isn't a single laceration. I press it in further to test myself, or possibly just to grasp something firmly. My palm remains uncut.
"I'm sorry -- if I had been here just a minute sooner, I could have... I could have saved you from -- from -- I'm sorry."
Her voice trails off. Any semblance of stoic resolve is gone from her now; she's sobbing heavily, her gasps muffled from what I guess is the burying of her face in her hands. I hear the sound of gravel giving way as she collapses to her knees behind me.
No, she shouldn't be crying. I still feel dazed, but I know that much. My body is unscathed -- there's no need to worry about me.
My legs gain strength; I slowly, uneasily push myself off of the ground.
She shouldn't be crying.
I turn myself around and see her curled figure shuddering in sorrow, arms covering her head as if to keep the world away. Still, her long hair billows subtly in the soft breeze all the same, with the same tranquility that I remember.
She shouldn't be crying, not for me.
I take a few tentative steps forward, still unsure of the steadiness of my feet. They feel reasonably balanced for a yard or two, but -- no, I can't move on these any further --
My knees buckle, not from weakness but from emotion.
I throw my arms in front of me, not to catch myself but to embrace her.
Her head falls onto my shoulder, not as a burden but as a comfort.
The piece of glass falls out of my hand and evaporates in the wind.