Because today is what it is. In memory of all those who died. Rest in peace.
In case this comes off as disrespectful in any way, I absolutely do not mean it. There are others who have suffered more than I could comprehend. I am not trying to make light of it. I'm not trying to pass it off as "LOL ANOTHER TIME FOR THE NATIONS". I just wanted to write this, so I did.
Review!
When he woke up, it was at 8:00. Without looking at the calender, he knew what day it was.
As well as that, he had a meeting at 8:45.
Didn't they remember what day it was? One of the ones special to him, and no, they had to go annoy him. The one day.
He sighed and groggily rolled out of bed, trudging to the bathroom and standing under the cold water for a while. It revitalized his system, woke him up. It was a shock to his system. He closed his eyes as the frigid water ran over the lids.
When he woke up, it was 8:00. Another normal day, another meeting, another boring set of routines to fill. He had about an hour to prepare for the meeting, and he flopped out of bed and slumped over to the shower. He considered using cold water, but that would be physically painful, and instead he cranked the heat all the way up. The water felt like tiny needles against his skin.
Red as a lobster, he finally finished his shower, toweled himself off, and, in his boxers, searched through the closet for his suit.
When he couldn't take another second of the water freezing his skin, he shut off the water and wrapped the towel around his waist like a kilt before rummaging through the wardrobe for his normal outfit. There it was- right in the back. He shrugged out of the towel and got into his boxers, and then turned to look at himself in the mirror.
He saw what he normally saw; a young man, well muscled with the tiniest edge of fat smoothing his figure. And the pale pink scars, as always, from a collection of different events; tumbling into a thorn thicket at a young age, the war of 1812, all of the things he'd prefer to forget. But today the scar of choice was spidering across the skin just under his collarbone. As if it knew he was thinking of it, it turned redder and puffier as he watched, and after another moment, he went to put the rest of his clothes on.
He looked at himself in the mirror and winked, shooting his reflection with a finger gun. "You got this." He had a particularly good idea this time around, and he was going to make sure the others knew it. He almost walked out the door before chuckling, stepping back, and putting Texas securely on his face. Then, humming a jaunty tune, he jammed his feet into his business flats and glanced at his watch. It was 8:30. He had enough time to grab a burger.
He picked up his briefcase, checked to make sure all his papers were snugly tucked inside, and then walked out of the hotel room he'd rented. Around him, in the lobby, people were wearing black armbands and the occasional American-flag-striped bandanna. A few people were crying, and his heart ached for them, and for him, and for what they'd all lost.
It was a cloudy day, and the tribute that shone straight up like a reverse tractor beam illuminated the gray sky. He walked down the sidewalk, snug in his suit and tie as he headed down to the financial district. It was 8:30. He had enough time to swing by his favorite restaurant and gobble down a burger, but instead, he took a long detour through Times Square, whose many screens had the theme of sadness.
As he munched on the burger, he had a tingling sense of unease. Something's not right...but he put it down to his revolutionary idea. It would take a while for it to catch on, but people would love it, he knew. He paused for a moment and stood in Times Square, breathing in his city, before he strolled in the direction of the World Trade Center, where the meeting was. It was about a five minute walk, and why couldn't he enjoy things?
He neared the bases of the two parallel buildings, brushing crumbs off his suit. An airplane or two flew overhead, close enough to make him cover his ears from the sound. Huh, he thought. Is that normal? His question was answered when they veered directly for the towers. There was an explosion, and then another, and then thick black smoke stained the pristine September sky.
He stood at the site with thousands of other people, looking at the square shapes of the foundation. He remembered his horror. He remembered the flare of orange light as the building caught fire, and his fear. They're all in there. His hands tightened on the briefcase, and a teardrop plopped from his eye.
"No!" he shouted, screamed, a sudden pain in his chest compressing his heart. His voice was lost among the chorus of voices around him, and he looked up to the floor he just knew they were on.
He'd run in, one man among the swarm of people, remains of the burger left under the trampled feet. Being a nation, he'd quickly outpaced the front-runners despite the constricting fire, and, having no time for the elevators, took the stairs three at a time. By the time he'd reached the floor they were on, he was wildly disheveled and panting. Another teardrop made its way down his face.
He staggered to a halt, seeing the bodies sprawled left and right. He knelt down -by now the pain in his chest was unbearable- and shook the nearest nation, darling Mattie, his brother, Canada. Once his brother reached a groggy consciousness, he sat up and gasped. "Al, are you all right?" Mute, he was only able to shake his head, tears being flung off in every direction.
Looking over the rubble, he felt a sympathetically negative string of thoughts. Why couldn't I stop this from happening? I'm supposed to be the hero, I'm supposed to be invincible...For the millionth time, the mantra ran through his mind. He bowed his head.
The building shook with a sudden tremor. His brother could only watch in horror as a sharp, sudden pain twisted his insides, and he toppled like a felled tree, mouth open in a silent scream.
He'd never figured out how he - and the rest of them- had gotten out of the building before it collapsed, and Mattie had never told him.
His watch chirped, reminding him of the time, and he turned and made his way to the back of the crowd, to the building where the meeting was now. Head down, he pushed through the people gently, trying not to take anything in, and squeezed in through the edge of the doorframe. This building, unlike the hotel he'd stayed in, was empty. A low murmur of voices came from the double doors at the end of the hallway.
He pushed the doors open. Eight faces stared up at him with worried, gentle expressions. He must've looked terrible, for Italy leaped to his feet and gave him a hug. After a moment of indecision, he returned it, a small warmth kindling inside him. My life isn't terrible. I still have them.
After a protracted silence, he forced a smile to his face, and put real effort into making it genuine. After a failed try, a wavering grimace, and an obvious fake, he finally settled into his real grin."So, the hero's here! What appears to be the problem?"