I see a hand in front of me. I look up.
“Take my hand; I’ll help you up,” a smiling firefighter says to me.
I get the priest and they lift him up. Another firefighter reaches out for me. I take his hand, and yet another firefighter rushes to take my other hand; they pull me up. A minute later they help me get on my feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m fine; please help others. Thanks,” I say.
“Okay, there are ambulances outside, if you need medical assistance.”
“Thank you.”
I look at the priest; he seems to be confused but okay. I pat him on the back and smile at him. I think we did a good job back there; we had our share of that hell.
It’s time to go home.
People come and go; several of them are rescuers. They try to bring stretchers to the platform. I know it’s going to be impossible to get those things inside the tunnel. I wonder how many more are dying inside the cars right now.
My heart goes out to them.
I start climbing up the staircase toward the street.
I see a few others like me, with ragged, charred clothes and faces blackened by the smoke. We look at each other and somehow acknowledge one another, without speaking.
Only those of us who were able to walk out of that hell know what is really going on there. I begin to feel the rain on my face as I make it to the last steps of what has been my journey back to life.
Reporters are harassing all survivors with questions; they all want to know what it was like ‘down there.’ Some of us keep on walking; we don’t care for interviews. We’ve been face to face with death; we are not sure why we survived.
I walk down the street. I’m very disoriented; I look around but I don’t know where I am. I need to sit down for a minute.
I see a park and walk toward it; the rain washes my face off. My lungs are still burning.
I hear sirens coming and going; fire trucks honk loudly for traffic to move out of the way. People run and gather around the subway station. I notice smoke coming up the stairs. I hope the rescue teams are okay; it’s hard to think of the horrors they will encounter down there.
I wonder where the ones who were around me—inside the car—might be now. I wonder if I could have done more to help others.
I wonder if I might be dead.
I have a constant headache and hear a constant beeping sound from the explosion. Some people have stopped in the park to ask me if I need help; I think I look helpless. They can tell, right away, I have been in the ‘subway tragedy,’ as they now call it.
I appreciate everyone’s concern; I just need to catch my breath for a little while. I’m sure my legs won’t hold me if I tried to walk right now.
I’m shaking. I feel scared for the first time since the accident. Things look different to me now; it’s hard to explain. I see a man jogging with his dog; I begin to think how good it feels to be alive.
An old woman stops after looking at me for a little bit. She rushes toward me and puts a picture in front of my face. I see a beautiful girl there; it’s her graduation picture.
“Have you seen her? She’s my granddaughter. She was riding that train this morning; have you seen her?”
