A/N: I wrote this on 9/11/02 for www.fanfiction.net, basically to express how I felt about the whole thing and the one-year anniversary. I mainly focus on these two characters, Max and Logan, best friends, so I decided to write about how they would feel.
ALLEGIANCE"Logan?"
Max's melodic voice wafted through the house. "You here?"
"In the den, Max," Logan replied. His eyes were glued to the television screen.
"What's up? Why is there a flag outside the door?" Max asked, coming into the room. She saw Logan sitting in a beat-up old armchair, legs outstretched and a bottle of water in one hand, watching TV.
"Don't you know what day it is?" Logan replied. The television glow in the slightly darkened room bounced off his glasses making them look blue and iridescent.
"Thursday?" Max haphazardly took off her leather jacket and draped it over a wooden chair randomly placed beside the entrance of the den.
"Close. September 11, 2021."
"I knew that too. Why won't you look at me, Logan? Do I have something on my face?" Max swiped at her nose with her sleeve.
"Oh," Logan glanced at Max. "Sorry. I'm just a little warped."
"What's up with the eleventh?"
"Are you telling me you don't know?"
"I'm telling you I don't know."
Logan took a deep breath, "Even after almost twenty years, it's hard to talk about…"
"Someone die?"
He winced and then nodded. "Sit down, Max."
Max sat on the floor next to Logan's chair.
"Now look at the screen. What do you see?"
Max shot her friend an are-you-kidding-me look but then did as she was told.
"9/11 … Still After All These Years" read the screen.
She glanced up at Logan again. His expression hasn't changed. He just clenched his jaw. Max propped her elbows on her knees and steadied her head in her hands. Like a starved child she ate up news story after news story about a place across the country, in New York City, called the World Trade Center, and how they fell. Her jaw dropped in awe as she watched the two beautiful structures tumble like an injured toddler. She listened to stories about women whose husbands were killed, about mothers whose children were. She learned about the man who was behind it all, someone with a towel around his head named bin Laden. She watched planes crash into structures and explode in angry orange bursts. Max began to feel sick to her stomach and her eyes teared. Her arms ached to reach into the television and hug each and every person on the screen as they cried on each other's shoulders and watched in awe. She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and pity and guilt. She watched firefighters cry and policemen embrace one another.
When did this happen? Twenty years ago? Max did the math in her head. She was still a baby back in Wyoming when this was going on. Logan had been thirteen. Where was he? How did he feel?
Logan looked down at Max and watched as her face froze as horrific images flashed before her eyes like a wild flame. He wondered what was going on inside her head. He knew she had been sheltered about what was going on in the world most of her life but how could they hide newspapers and television broadcasts from her? Pure as the driven snow, his best friend seemed. But then again, Logan knew that even now, Max didn't watch TV that much. She only used newspapers to light fires in her fireplace. He decided he was doing her a favor. It was the harshest way he could think of to expose her to it, but even now he had trouble forcing the words out of his mouth.
"How many people were there, Logan?" Max whispered, watching a large cloud of smoke billow down the street while people ran for their lives.
"Huh?" Logan snapped out of his reverie. He was so spaced he almost didn't hear her frail undertone.
"How many people?" Max looked up and stared at her best friend, who never seemed more wise than he did now. "How many?" she repeated when he did not answer right away.
Logan recessed for a moment and then racked his brain for the number he knew so well and had kept it on a memory shelf for twenty years. His tongue stumbled over the number as he croaked in a raucous voice, "If you counted everyone on the planes, the pedestrians, the rescue workers and the victims in the buildings…Two thousand, eight hundred and one."
Max repeated the number out loud and then several times in her head in a rhythm. She then shook her head, as if the number would fly off her like an annoying tick off a dog. Her dark curls fanned out, slapping her gently in the face. "How did you do it, Logan? How did you deal?"
Logan put his bottle of water down, leaned forward and sighed. "I didn't…I was there that day."
Max's eyes went wide.
"I was on a business trip with my dad. He was showing me the east coast branch of Cale Industries. We were on our way to breakfast when the first plane hit." Logan stared into space again. He closed his eyes and saw it all etched behind the web-like designs in his eyelids.
The fire. The smoke. I hear crying. Sobbing. The ground is shaking beneath my feet. I look upwards and feel as if my heart has jumped into my throat while the bottom of my stomach fell to my toes at the same time.
"Dad?" I glance at him. "What was that?"
My father, for the first time in his life, is speechless. He stands and stares like most people in the street. "I don't know, Logan. I really don't know. But if you ask me, I predict it's another sign that our nation is shot to hell and never coming back."
I begin to cry. My cousin Bennett would have a field day to know that I cried but when I look up again at Dad, he is crying too. I think I know why.
"Dad!" I cry. "Doesn't Pete work there?" I point to the second tower, remembering my father's best friend.
All of a sudden, the second plane hits. People are screaming. It's chaos. The smoke starts traveling down the street.
"Run, Logan. RUN!" I hear. So I do.
I'm not the only one. I'm surrounded by people running from the smoke. A block later, I trip. I loose Dad. Someone picks me up and drags me into a nearby store. I can't see who it is. The smoke stings my eyes. A piece of debris scraped against my cheek. I struggle against them, calling for my dad.
"Calm down!" my rescuer snaps once we're inside. "Stop screaming."
I rub the dust from my eyes and look at my surroundings. I'm in a small coffee shop. There are six other people. One woman is holding a video camera. All she's saying is "Oh my God, oh my God."
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I'm covered head to toe with gray dust and debris. My cheek is bleeding. My jeans are ripped.
"What's your name, kid?" one guy asks me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and sits me down.
"Logan. My name is Logan Cale. I'm thirteen, I'm from Seattle and I can't find my dad." I feel sick and like I'm going to faint. I have a stitch in my side from running.
A woman turns to me, "Your dad is probably fine, Logan. But stay here until everything is settled."
I sit and I stay for nearly an hour. The woman, Mary Ann, brings me a warm wet washcloth to wipe my face and glasses.
"Do you realize," the woman with the video camera says, "that we're now a part of history?"
When we emerge from the coffee shop, it looks as if the apocalypse has struck. Everything is covered with dust. Debris is everywhere. I can't help but burst into tears when I look to my left and see that there were no more towers. I never felt more alone. When I see the familiar trucks and flashing lights of paramedics and firemen and police rush towards the site, I start to follow them, run after them. I had to find my dad. I would give anything to see him again. Maybe they would help me if I asked them.
"Wait!" I hear someone call after me after I'd been running for what seemed like hours. "Logan!"
I turn at the sound of my name. A man with my hair and wearing a navy suit is standing there. He waved.
"Dad!" I cry. I rush towards him and we hug. I was not alone anymore.
"It's gone," Dad says tearfully into my hair. "All of it. And God knows how many it took with them."
When Logan finished his story, he opened his eyes. Max was in tears. It was one of the first times he'd ever seen her cry.
"My dad and I stayed in New York for a week to help with the volunteer clean-up crew. But when I came back to Seattle and had to go to school, I didn't want to talk about it. But that's all people wanted to do."
"What happened to your father's friend?" Max asked.
Logan sighed. "He died. His wife Willa sat outside Ground Zero for two weeks with a sign that said 'Have You Seen My Husband?' with a picture and his vital stats. She couldn't—she didn't believe he was gone until they found his body."
Max was silent. She'd known Logan for almost four years and she'd never known that he'd been through this. She was stunned.
"A year later on that very day, I was forced to sit through a school assembly on how we should be proud we were American," Logan began again. He spoke slowly and selectively. "I didn't want to hear it. For me it was like a scab. If you kept picking at it, it would never heal and leave a scar for the rest of your life. Besides the assembly, I had to suffer through three moments of silence, a human chain around the school and made to watch memorial service after memorial service. By the time the day was over, I felt like I was bleeding from the inside, like the scab was right on my heart. All I could think about was that a year from today I watched thousands of people die right in front of my very eyes. And these people had no idea. I was angry. All year I was tortured with nightmarish images whenever I closed my eyes and just when I was beginning to recover and heal, they opened the wound."
Max pursed her lips, making sure Logan was finished with his story. Then she decided to voice her opinion. "Though it happened when I was still an infant, I can't help but feel angry myself…as I was watching, I wanted to be Super Woman and just go help everyone. But it's too late. I feel almost helpless. Logan, why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Logan blinked a couple of times. "I didn't know you didn't know."
Sighing, Max continued. "Watching all those people cry and cry together as one, I couldn't help but want to reach out and give them my shoulder to cry on. But then watching them all turn around and work together to rebuild what they had lost, helping to heal the injured and feed the hungry and house the homeless regardless of all differences…it just makes me want to be a better person…but I don't know where to start."
Logan got an idea. "Come with me," he said. He held out his hand to help Max up off the floor. He lead her outside and positioned her in front of the flag he had on the porch. Then, he stood beside her and whispered into her ear. "Right hand over your heart," he said and took her hand and located it over her breast. He put his larger, warmer hand over hers and began to recite in a loud, clear voice,
"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
They stood in silence for a moment, hand in hand, hearts beating as one. Then they watched in awe as little by little, people next door and across the street began to trickle out of their own homes and flocked towards Logan's porch. A slight breeze made the flag flutter with life.
When they had a nice crowd gathered, a crowd of men, women, children of all colors, races, ages and sizes, Max repeated the words Logan had performed moments ago,
"I pledge allegiance, to the flag…"
Gradually, people joined in until the entire throng of people were reciting,
"…one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Afterward, someone broke out in singing, "God Bless America." Everyone followed suit.
"Congratulations, Max," Logan said, hugging his friend. "You've begun."
FIN
In the arms of the angel,
Fly away from here.
From this dark cold hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear.
You were pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.
—Sarah McLachlan