Corrie's Eruption: A Short Story

You awake with a breeze twirling with the fragments of hair left on your scalp; a dance known only to friends of the oncoming light. You open your eyes only to see the endless ocean in the sky. You do not see your family, nor your friends. You demand your legs and arms to function, they do not. You beg them to work the one time you need them to, and in defiance to the groan of your bones, you stand. You begin to wonder if this is a dream, a nightmare. It’s not real. I will see them when I wake up. They are fine. It’s not real. The earth rises and in its presence is the rubble of your home, your brother’s home, and your neighbor’s home, scattered and utterly destroyed. With a horrible realization, you start screaming for the arms of your children and wife to wrap around you once again. You can’t hear yourself scream. You can’t hear anything except the deafening silence. You drop to our knees while your eyes are drowned in a river of sorrow. Then, you feel the small hands of your children grasp yours with surprising fierceness. Though your wife is nowhere to be seen in the mist of dust, you have never been so relieved to bask in the mist of ruins and death.

I vividly remember that chilly night in March as I walked out of Fifer, the building my father now calls home, for the first time. I had goosebumps, but they were not from the cold I felt hit my skin. Instead, they were from the sickness in my stomach. As I got in the car, I began to cry and had to stop myself from running back inside. My entire world had turned upside-down. How could I go home without my father? How could I leave him in a nursing home, a place where he was too young and mentally fit to be confined? I had to fight the feeling that he didn’t belong. I had to remind myself of why he chose to be there, and I hated it.

And then, the day I had feared of most, finally arrived. We lost our father, the only figure I truly felt safe with. After months of mourning and painful transformations, our mother fell sick. In those terrible days, days during which I was locked in the basement most of the time, for my safety and even more: for the safety of my family, I was incapable of helping. To this, I regret even today.

Two years, since we first arrived, and my world is crumbling down. My younger sister, Maisie, only a year and six months at the time, was far wiser than any of us; that night, she saw it coming, she sensed it, she wouldn’t stop her crying. It has been three days since the fire, and still, my mind cannot process what happened, was this really happened? This had to be surreal, this is my family, they are not gone; they can’t be gone. As of right now, I am staying with my neighbors, the Schatzmans, as Mr. Schatzman breaks the worst news I have heard. My heart becomes heavy, and nothing feels right anymore, I had lost my family, the ones whom I have grown to love, they won’t be there to greet me with a smile in the morning or to tuck me in at night.

The week before Anabelle and I moved out into the city, I felt the nerves, the jittering butterflies of happiness, and the warm hugs our parents gave us in the limited time that we had left. The week after we settled and moved into our new apartment If I had known what was to come, however, I never would have departed from my parents. All the good memories I and Anabelle shared throughout our lives, were taken away, all vanquished because of one night. Those hours of darkness that which we spent out, I wish so much that we could take back. It was supposed to be a night of fun, an awakening of our new lives as adolescents, but what happened instead was a tragedy. In the blink of an eye, I was gone. My soul, my body, my entirety, erased. And so was Anabelle’s.

I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.

As I scour around for something to eat, I find the pantry empty (what a surprise) except for a bag of potatoes, a couple of packets of 2 min noodles and a few loaves of almost-finished bread. I salvage two pieces, put them in the toaster and flick through the junk mail. "How was school?" a husky voice calls from the lounge. Mother has resurrected. The side of her face is patterned with red marks from the pillow. She trudges over to the fridge, opening it mindlessly, closing it. She repeats this process with the freezer and several cupboards, tears began to fall down her cheeks. I know the fact we had no food MUST have really upset

The grand town hall had half it’s roof falling off, I looked through the library windows and saw piles of books all flung about the place. Bomb craters were everywhere. I clasp my hand to my chest, it hurt to see my town in pieces. My little corner of the world. My home. I pinched myself, hoping it was just a dream. Nothing. I pinched harder and harder, ignoring the pain. I stopped, I looked at my fingernails which were now caked with blood, I didn’t wake up, this wasn’t a nightmare It actually happened. My anger took hold and I howled into the sky, tears streaming down my face. I sobbed and cried and mourned and wept and cried some more until there was nothing left and i felt blank, numb and helpless…

I suddenly stopped breathing, like my lungs filled with water. I felt like I was drowning. my lungs screamed for air, but they weren’t loud enough. I jolted my arms up trying to draw their attention. Then images started to flash before my eyes. my first birthday party with the exploding cake. The satisfaction that filled my dad’s face when I rode my bike for the first time. My older brothers grabbing my hands and flinging me into the air and coming down into a warm summer pool. Lucas running up to a random door ringing the doorbell and ducking behind the bush. I wanted to go back to those moments. I had to. This couldn’t be it. I had so much to tell my parents and my brothers. I miss them. I love them. I knew what I had to do. Then the images

Outside as I lean onto the rugged, worn down wall I can see her scarlet dripping face clouded with never-ending tears. My hands are frosted from the trembling weather, and my tears have blocked the sound of cars and smell of firewood. It’s only been three days, yet the feeling of being alone in such a big world has filled us with angst. My mom is right in front of me, through the fogged over window I’m gazing in. She has somehow found a way to fill an empty house with dread, which overbears the silence and covers up the scent of vanilla from the bile filling her mouth. Her pain fills me with dread as I taste the freezing sap from the window seal and catch a slight smell of the pine trees that surround us.

I had always known that the day would come when my Grandma would no longer be with us. Yet, I couldn’t have expected the heart wrenching sorrow that filled my body, mind, and soul. Her funeral had just finished and we were beginning the long and quiet trip back to my Grandma’s lovely house that I was raised in. Even though I’m now eighteen, I can still remember my childhood swinging on the old wooden swing tied to the limb of a sturdy oak in the back. The house itself is a small and cozy cottage with faded blue walls, mix matched furniture, and outdated appliances. However, to my sister, Delfina, and I, it is home where my Grandmother raised us because my mother was highly incapable of doing so herself.

We arrived at grandma’s place to clear out her home. As I stepped in, warm morning light caressed my face and was infused with a golden orange glow. I clutched a photograph of my grandmother, now worn and tearing. I still couldn’t believe that she was gone. I still remembered when I first heard about this, sorrow twisted tightly into me and a rush of tears flowed from my eyes. That day, was the mournful days of my life.

When I was four I sat in the back of my dad’s doctor’s office visit playing with my dolls. He looked at my dad and told him that he had six months to live. I remember laying in my bed at night hoping that I would see my dad the next morning. This never ended until my dad died nine years later. In those nine years if I heard an ambulance headed up the highway towards my house while I was at school, I got a sinking feeling. There was further suffering as I watched my father decline over the years. The suffering and the worry took away much of my childhood thoughts and innocence, but I did not know that then.

I quickly unpacked the few things I had and laid them on the bed. I walked around the room, seeing if there was anything special about it. There wasn't much, but it was enough. The bottom trim was lined with cheap gold. The bathroom door was covered in hand-painted lilies. I walked over and admired the intricate designs. I opened the door and walked in. It was just a bathroom. Shower, toilet, sink. It was all there. Simple. Their entire house was. My house was a mess of old paintings and stains on the wall, reminding me of my childhood. On the back of my old room door was two hand prints. Exal and me. I realized I was staring into the simplicity and snapped back. Just as I was heading back into reality the door creaked open. "Hey." I looked over my shoulder expecting Exal. Her mom was standing there instead. "Um, hi." I knew she could hear the slight disappointment in my voice. " Listen, I know it's hard now, but it'll be okay eventually." I didn't know how to respond. "That's what you say, but it doesn't feel like it at all." I whispered it through hard breathing. It seemed as if we had an understanding, so we stood in silence for a few moments. "If you need to talk, about anything, let me know." Her words were soothing and I nodded as she left.

The air was crisp, the sun just starting to peek up over the tree line, a small amount of fog filling the air on what seemed to be a usual fall morning. Par usual I forced myself out of bed dragging my feet to the kitchen like a prisoner on death row, already dreading whatever it was that the day was going to hold. Just like any other teenager checking my phone, was a priority early in the morning, catching up on whatever it is that I may have missed while sleeping. But, something like wasn't right, a text message notification from my mother saying “come wake me up”, stealthy walking through the house careful to not disturb anyone i walked to her bedroom, to find her already awake, strange i thought to myself. I said good morning as she shifted around, getting a better view of me. “Madeline, you're not going to school today, your dad was in a motorcycle accident last night.” she said. With those words piercing through the air around us, I was ripped from my sleepy daze and wide awake. Standing in the middle of that dark bedroom with only the small beam of light coming through the cracked door, i felt the utter darkness consume me wholey. My heart had took a plunge in this newly dig hole inside of me taking my stomach with it. Gathering the courage to speak and finding my voice I whispered “Is he dead?” She replied back with “Not yet, but honey this is bad.” Growing up in a household with a mother as a nurse, I knew this was no exaggeration. I felt sick, like i had be riding