9-11: Disaster Through the Eyes of the Heroes (Part 3)

Reads: 93  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The third and final part of the story. This part begins with Jeff speaking. After the lines of stars, the perspective goes back to Bob's and the story ends with Bob speaking. If you have read all 3 parts, thank you. And please tell me what you think of it and recommend your writing or other people's that are very good. :D

Submitted: November 18, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 18, 2011

A A A

A A A


A few days passed. About nine hundred people and I were still working to find bodies or people still alive. But all we were doing was puling out body parts and large sums of debris. By this point I still hadn't heard anything on Bob, which was worrying me. On September 25, I went to the nearest hospital I thought they would have taken him to and asked the main nurse if they had a resident in any of the rooms by the name of Bob Scurlik.

The nurse looked at me, nodded, and said, "Follow me; you're not going to like this." As we reached the intensive care wing tof the hospital, I knew this couldn't be good. I looked around the door and there in the shadows with tubes and wires coming out of him lay Bob. His heart rate was low and his breathing was done by a machine. I fought to keep back the tears. That's when the nurse told me he had suffered a great deal of trauma to the head, causing him to slip into a coma. On top of that, he had broken eight ribs, his left arm, and his spinal cord, which would leave him completely paralyzed from the waist down. 

I spent nearly every waking minute I could at Bob's side to be sure I was there if he was to wake up. After six years of going constantly in and out of the hospital every other day, I started to give up hope. I began to go in less and less, and after almost ten years of Bob being in a coma, I was lucky if I got there once a week. One Sunday I had come to visit him around 11:00 AM. It was around 3:00 PM when I decided to go out and get something to eat. I was gone about an hour. When I returned to the room, to my astonishment, a person I thought I'd lost for the rest of my life sat on the edge of what had been Bob's bed for ten long years,

***********************************************

I awoke in a daze. Bright lights stung my eyes, forcing them to squint at the room around me. I was confused and scared. I had no clue where I was, but to my relief, I saw no steel across my chest. I tried to raise myself onto my elbows, but fatigue and disorientation made this simple feat impossible. I fell back on the bed, silent and thoughtful. I heard a door creak open. A tall, bald man stepped into the room and turned toward me. He looked both surprised and delighted to see that I was awake. He began introducing himself and explaining what had happened to me. But I didn't need an explanation. I now knew exactly where I was, who was standing before me, and how I had come to be in this bed. I gazed around the hospital room as he talked, pretending to listen to the words he was speaking. 

Three words near the end of his speech caught my attention- ten year coma. I blinked in disbelief. Ten years? Had I really been in a coma that long? I looked around the room, trying to find some proof of this statement. My eyes shifted to a newspaper lying on a table. I laughed to myself as I read the date. September 11, 2011. On the front page, a group of firefighters was shown rummaging through the rubble, looking for something. Above it, the words TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY - WE REMEMBER were written in large, boldface letters. The doctor confirmed my suspicion. I had come out of my coma on the tenth anniversary of what I learned was now simply referred to as 9-11. 

I learned much more from the doctor that day: how I had gone unconscious after a steen beam landed across my entire body, how Jeff had been buried under rubble, rescued, and still able to rescue people, how the North Tower had collapsed just minutes after the South, how the fire department had continued putting out fires and finding people buried alive until December that year, and how it was a miracle I was even alive. I listened closely to what he was saying. By now, I was able to pull myself up into a sitting position. The mental cloudiness had nearly passed, and I was feeling much more alert. Despite the doctor's concerns, I tried to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. But they wouldn't move.

I pulled my paralzyed legs over the bed and inched closer to the edge. I sat quietly for a moment. The creak of an opening door shifted my attention to the far end of the room, to the most pleasant surprise I had ever seen. Jeff, dropping the unopened can of soda he carried in his hands, ran toward me, a look of surprise and elation on his face. He came to the edge of the bed and for a moment, I forgot about everything that had happened to us. I threw my arms around is neck, happy this was one of the first sights I would see after ten years of blackness.

I was discharged from the hospital a few days later. I returned to my family, who immediately embraced me. Tears streamed down my face as I returned the gesture. Our lives had almost completely returned to normal. I found an article in the paper, front page news, apparently, that sent a chill down my spine and shot excitement throughout my body. On the front page was a large picture of some poor man, hooked to wires and machines and in a coma. The headline read, FIREFIGHTER INJURED IN 9-11 COMES OUT OF COMA ON TENTH ANNIVERSARY. I read the article, which explained everything I already knew, and placed it on the table. I went to take a shower, or a bath, seeing as how I couldn't stand.

Now, on September 25, 2011, exactly ten years after Jeff's first hospital visit, I call him and ask him to come over. We sit talking for a few hours while he explains what I've missed in the world around me. Then we begin writing our story. The same story we finished in under a day; the same story that will last through generations, telling our descendants exactly what it was like to be on the front line on that fateful day. The same story you are reading now...  

 

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2017 Sasquatch1347. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Historical Fiction Short Stories