Chapter 1 Hillwood
Hillwood...almost a year ago, a flood came through this place. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives. Emergency broadcasts warned the city to evacuate, but no one seemed worried. We didn't think it could happen; the water would never reach us. We were safe.
When the water came, it had a heartbeat. The current had marrow in its bones. The flood had a mind of its own, a self-aware calculating intelligence without remorse. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives.
I could hear people on the roofs of their cars screaming, as the water quickly rose. The current swallowed them into the deepest place. I saw a teddy bear carried downstream before it went under. Cars were tossed around like bath toys in the violent brown water. A shape shifting entity, it grew nearly three stories high. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives.
When the rain finally stopped, those of us who survived had to wait. We waited on rooftops as the sun made its way through the grey sky. We spent our time hoping and waiting for rescue, as the temperature began to rise. The air became humid and sticky with the smell of sewage and death. Bloated bodies would appear in the water collecting clouds of black flies paying last respects. Some survivors would steal jewelry and other valuables from the dead. The dearly departed wouldn't miss their gold.
We waited on the rooftops for rescue, thirsty and sticky. "Water water everywhere not a drop to drink." When the boats finally came, some had died from dehydration in our diseased surroundings. Warm wet garage, human waste, and death filled the air, as the parade of boats took us out of the city. We were safe.
After us the, boats went back to collect the dead floating in the water. Bodies were delivered to the afterlife wrapped in black plastic. Housed in a high school gym, we waited for the city to drain. We waited until we could rebuild our homes and lives. Almost a year ago, a flood came through this place. It took more than it left; a lot of people lost their lives.
-Gerald Johanssen
When we all pulled together, at first, it meant something. It felt like it did, anyway. We turned our neighborhood into a colorful shrine in remembrance of all those who lost their lives in the flood. Fake flowers and crosses littered the sidewalks; candles were lit at night. People wrote names on the side of one building in black paint. We all came together for one another.
This is the kind of positive outlook, in the face of tragedy, that Arnold would have loved to see. Proof that everything he held dear was true; that deep down, people were truly good. But he wasn't here. He hasn't been here for almost two years. I try to accept that Arnold needed to be with his parents; they were separated unfairly by unbelievable circumstances, for most of his life. As much as I love him and selfishly want to keep him to myself, I could never deny him what he truly wanted.
The comradere that the neighborhood felt, slowly but surely disipated. After enough time goes by to put distance between a tragedy, people move on. The sense of community is lost; people don't need each other anymore and return to their apathetic ways. But the city is still haunted by what happened. Its inhabitants still have the spectre of the flood looming over them.
Tragedy brings out the best and worst in us. We're still rebuilding. Hillwood resembles a desolate and derilic ghost town, more than its formal self. However, I must say the desolation mirrors my own soul. Deep down I wish Arnold would come home and turn everything back to the way it was. I imagine him knowing Spanish, by now. When I close my eyes and listen closely, I hear him say "te amo Helga." This is no way to live.