Just a descriptive essay from English class. I finished it at three in the morning and didn't really edit the second half, so ignore the deterioration in quality.
Eyes bleary, brain fogged with drowsiness, I awake to the shrill shriek of my alarm clock and stumble downstairs. The ancient wooden slats creak, and the banister is cool under my hesitant fingertips. It’s chilly in the house. The air feels wrong to me, slippery and alien, and I pause in my descent, senses straining to catch any abnormality. I’m uneasy for some reason, although everything seems normal as I reach the kitchen: the countertops are pristinely white, the walls still in their in-between state of renovation, painter’s tape curled around the edges. My dad is gulping down his coffee – black, always – as he rifles through the newspaper, and his familiar, solid presence calms me. It has always been just the two of us; he`s the rock that has kept me sane and saved me from all of life`s traumas. I wonder for a moment what it would be like if it was ever me that had to do the saving. Could I ever be as strong as he is?
Dad looks up at me, his eyes crinkling in his slow smile as he says good morning. The newspaper screams up at me. The headlines are jarring, the terrible news contrasting with the dusty black on grey monochrome. It rustles as he folds over another page.
He offers to make me breakfast. Somehow I am not hungry, so I decline and sit with my tea, fingers wrapped around the mug, smoothing the curve of its handle over and over again. The repetition is comforting, and our amiable silence almost soothes my uncharacteristic paranoia. Something is wrong, though. I can feel it. My sense of dread increases exponentially.
And suddenly my fears are justified. A wave screams through my head and my brain crumples underneath its force. A rumble cracks through the house. I can feel the ground shuddering, growing more violent as the seconds race by. Earthquake!
The sound of breaking glass reaches me as the nearby window shatters under the pressure. Shards embed themselves in my arm. Blood mixes with fragments of crystal. I’m whipping my head around frantically, my mind disjointed, thought processes scattered by shock. “Dad! Dad!” My voice breaks in terror and I can hear the wheeze of the roof as it bends, feel it shiver through me. Thank God we only have one storey. My vision is blurry: jagged edges and crease lines hinder my search for my father. I realise I’m crying.
Another wave. My arm is sticky and throbbing, our house a mess of bricks and timber, and I’m thrust onto my stomach as the shock hits. I barely have time to take a breath before the walls tumble inwards towards me. I draw my legs in, clutching my hands over my head in an effort to save myself, and then I’m buried and my fingers are scrabbling for a crack with which to push my way out. I find nothing.
Trapped, one leg bent underneath me at an unnatural angle, fear swamps me. I take gasping breaths. My vision is still blurry, and it’s dark here, crowded, everything pressing in around me. The air, thick with debris, burns my lungs. How long do I sit here, glassy with shock and pain, shaking, unable to move from this position? I do not know. I only know that, while the vibrations and tremors have ceased, this ordeal is far from over.
Something shifts, and I can see again, albeit imperfectly. The kitchen table is pinning down my leg. Our chandelier lies a few feet away, diamond pendulums scattered like so many refracted marbles. I shake my head a few times experimentally, aware of a strange ringing reverberating in my ears. It chimes unceasingly, filling my head with a razor sharp ache. I have to get out of here. Where is my father?
Extricating myself from the rubble takes some time, as whenever I attempt to move any part of my body, my trapped leg shrieks with pain. I’m shifting myself around hesitantly, still dizzy with panic, when I hear a low groan. It’s my dad, I`m certain of it. That rough timbre is unmistakeable. Inflated with determination, I tear myself away from everything that pins me down, feeling adrenaline burn away any remaining shock or pain. I stand up too quickly and woozy black dots threaten to pull me back down, but I close my eyes and focus myself. My father needs me.
The world feels jumbled. Paintings and school pictures lie haphazardly on the floor, frames shattered. The refrigerator has come away from its wires. Several walls have bits missing, bricks and wooden framing torn away from the overall structure by the incessant vibrations of the earthquake. Cracks run through the dust of the debris. They stretch their spindly fingers across the floor and up the walls, much like the coffee stains climbing the legs of the kitchen table. The ubiquitous destruction makes me feel damaged, broken in some irreconcilable way. I feel unsafe. This world is too surreal.
With a compromised leg and a bleeding arm, moving at all is painfully difficult. Picking my way through the obstacle course of upturned furniture, glass, and sharp edges, I fervently hope that a neighbour has called emergency services.
My father groans again. I can see his hand, weathered and callused, twitching from beneath a beam. I reach for it and clutch his fingers in mine, holding onto all that is real to me. ``Dad! I`m here, I`m here, hold on,`` I beg, tears forging tracks down my face and puddling underneath my chin. His body is beaten and bruised from the earthquake, his fingers shaking in mine. I can`t rouse a response. His eyes are closed and his heavy brow is lined with pain. I can feel an answering pain within me and feel dizzy again. He looks broken and frail, his body crumpled, a sharp dichotomy with his usual rugged steadfastness. What would I do without him? The thought tears jagged crevices in my heart and I tighten my grip on his hand. His fingers are weak. He can`t save me anymore. It`s up to me now, but what do I do? How can I help him?
Panic streams through me, blowing through barricades in my mind. I manage to lift the remnants of furniture under which he is trapped and sit there with him until the most welcome sound I have ever heard rips through the air: chopper blades. They whip through the stillness. I am grateful; the steady hum gives me something to latch onto, and the knowledge that we will finally be rescued fills me with relief. Grateful, I succumb to the temptation of unconsciousness, the pain and fear drowning in the blackness. I sink down and wait. As my eyes dim, I see spidery figures racing towards us with unerring agility; hear shouts and instructions and unfolding stretchers. Saved.
Closing my eyes, I feel warm arms lift me up as unconsciousness envelops me. ``Save my dad,`` I instruct the unknown angel who folds me in his arms. My mind crumbles inside the roaring of my ears, but the man who cradles me worms his last words through the sinkholes.
``He`s already saved, kid. You did it. He would have died if you hadn`t gotten him out from underneath all of that debris. You`re a hero, but you`ve done your bit. We`ll take it from here.``
His words stay with me as I lose all knowledge of reality. I had the strength to save my father after all.
