Scorched

A coffee stain on my white button up by 7:15 a.m., only for my boss to dump another box of files on my desk for me to sort through before our 9 o'clock meeting. I can hear the interns swarming Lynette with all of the ideas for next weeks issue-- ideas that she will never print. She sends me to shew them, while I am on the phone with four clients, the clock is ticking, and I have yet to email Rob from corporate that we are cancelling our 2 o'clock meeting with Ellen. I changed into my back-up button up that I keep for disastrous days like today, only to spill my new coffee on it due to the abrupt screech of the fire alarm. With the deepest breath I can pull from my lungs, I sigh; it is a Monday. 

Perhaps someone did not meet a deadline and is trying to buy time by faking a fire-- that would not be so shocking considering the pressures of this high maintenance office. I too have considered such drastic measures for the sake of job-security. Perhaps one of the young interns put a fork in the microwave again-- the intelligence of our interns seems to grow more questionable each year. Who hires these kids anyway? A similar list of thoughts runs through my mind until I peek out of my office door to see what looks like headless chickens running for their lives. Do you remember being five and digging for earth worms, and realizing that when you cut them in half both sides of their body can still inch away? My view was earth worms and chickens inching for the nearest exit. Perhaps I was not assuming the worst soon enough-- it began to smell like burnt plastic and I see two young men dropping fire extinguishers and hustling toward the stairwell. Smoke is filling the office and I am paralyzed by screams. Should I take some of these files? Should I grab the cute picture of my dog off of my desk? Where is my purse? Did I check my coat this morning? Did I drive or walk to work today? I am sweating and I am unsure if it is anxiety or if it is beginning to get warmer. I say fuck the dog picture, but I grab my purse and take off toward the door only to hear a scream coming from two offices down. Fire has overcome the door, and there is no way to get in. All I see is flames and I am beginning to get light headed. The screams grow more faint and I am worried for the amount of people that did not escape. Is this trapped mystery woman the only one, or have others screams already been muted by the fire's roar?

 My make-up has sweat off and my once favorite back-up white button up is ruined. I rip it to cover my mouth and go after the fire extinguishers that the young men threw to the floor. Terrified but full of adrenaline I feed the fire killer foam that subsides most of the flames, at least enough to be able to kick down the burnt and crispy office door. I was praying the mystery woman was smart enough to be away from the entrance, and my prayers were answered. Luckily, in my spare time I nerd out on medical shows and can recognize that although faint, the woman has a pulse. I cradle her like a child covering her nose and mouth the best I can and we hike down the stairwell. The amount of people fleeing the building is backed up once we reach the third floor. So close yet still so far from the exit I begin to panic. It has been at least fifteen minutes of chaos and despite the running and pushing there are so many people that it will take at least ten minutes to get out of the building. How long does it take for a structure to collapse once fire is involved? The cracking foundation can be heard crumbling floor by floor, and I'm not sure if there is enough time to make it out of the building. I can hear emergency vehicles outside which hopefully means the fire can be put out before we are obliterated and turned to dust blended into these concrete walls. We're on the second floor now, two more flights of stairs and the exit is in sight. I know that people are crying and screaming but I can only see them. My ears have seemed to have gone on strike, and I cannot hear anything but my own pulse. Every blood vessel in my body tightens, and my skin crawls with nerves that itch worse than chiggers. I see the exit, and I hear crumbling right above me. The building is collapsing, and just as so, my life is with it. We are sprinting at this point and I am still carrying this woman. Oxygen hits my nostrils and I see sunlight, and we barely make it out. I hand over the woman to a nearby EMT and run across the street. I fall to my knees and with the deepest breath I can pull from my lungs I sigh, "It's a Monday."

The Disconnect

I have not known myself in quite some time. Although my reflection is clear, my aura has changed and my being is lost on some other astral plane-- unattainable. 
I lost myself the day I lost control of my own body; the day a man took something from me that I am unsure I can ever get back. People watched my demise and rather than victimized, they criticized. I said no, yet I am a hoe, and a whore, and the scum between an ogres toes. I said no. So why do I suffer? When will my soul find the peace that was stolen? When will the disconnect between myself and the injustice done to my being come together like the pieces of a puzzle and allow me to glow again? My aura is as bleak and empty as an abandoned mine. I am cold when all I seek is the love of the sun. I want to be yellow and instead I am nothing. The air has the weight of the universe and gravity anchors it on my lungs. When will I catch my breath and cut the anchor loose? Calling this anxiety tiresome is the most under-exaggeration in the history of hyperbole's. Will my reflection ever match my being or does disconnect grow over time?