Counting Colors

Red. Yellow. Green. Red. Yellow. Green.

That makes it just over 100 times that the light has changed since I’ve opened my eyes. I can see the faint reflection in a puddle just a few feet beneath me. Water from a broken pipe drips into the murky puddle. Every five seconds to be exact- momentarily distorting the reflection of the traffic light beyond the rubble. The light seems to pour in from a tiny gap in debris behind me.

Red. Yellow. Green.

It’s quiet down here, the sirens that were once blaring in my ears have silenced, the screams that echoed, have ceased. The occasional water droplet only slightly disrupts the eerie silence. I can feel the dust caked on my face, my lungs scorched from the flames that seemed to have quelled, at least here under my portion of rubble.

There’s a searing pain along the full length of my left leg, which is interesting, because as of thirty minutes ago- I no longer have a left lower limb, a pool of crimson in its wake. I close my eyes and I can feel myself drifting. I shake myself awake, I have to focus on staying alive. I begin to count again.

Red. Yellow. Green.

This should make it 150 times, with ten seconds intervals between each color. That would make it 1500 seconds, which would make it approximately twenty-five minutes. Twenty five minutes since the world around me engulfed in flames, and fell away.

Fear began to creep into the forefront of my mind, my emotions encroaching on the logical perspective I strive to keep. I clench my fist in an effort to add more focus to the math teacher portion of my mind. Logic has carried me through ten long years of teaching rebellious high school students. I wonder what they’re doing right now. I wonder if Kevin is picking his teeth with his pocket knife- his idle maneuver. Is Rebecca staring at him longingly, instead of focusing on the worksheet I assigned them to work on with the substitute today? She’s the brightest in the class, she shouldn’t be wasting time on piece of shit boys like Kevin Kane who can barely solve division-let alone calculus. Then again- what makes mathematicians like myself any better? I can solve some difficult calculus problems, but completely suck at probability. I never calculated the likelihood of an actual plane crashing into Jenna’s office building today. What would the probability be? Something like 1 in 100,000? Hell if I know. Regardless, the probability must have been so high, and I missed it.

The pain begins to radiate up my entire spine now, searing, hot pain. I’d scream if my throat wasn’t so scorched. Would anyone hear me? There must be a two feet deep layer of rubble on top of this ceiling.

Red. Yellow. Green! RED. YELLOW. GREEN! I internally screamed to sway my focus from the searing pain, my blurring vision, and the fear of never being able to see Jenna again-or Kevin’s bull dog face.

I attempt to maneuver my head to the right, there’s a desk upturned. I wonder who’s desk it is. Are they somewhere lost in the rubble like me-did they come to work today?

I stretch out my hand and grasp onto the cool metal leg of the desk, and attempt to pull myself in that direction, maybe I can find a break in the rubble and attempt to use one big scream to gather some attention. But with each attempt, the pain encroaches my logical mind, threatening to break focus- threatening to make me succumb to fear and regret- something I have learned to avoid at all cost. Jenna is the only soul who allows me to enter that vulnerable space, in a safe way, a way that wont keep me in bed for days paralyzed by anxiety, like it did when I was a younger.

Jenna, without her I wouldn’t be the human I’ve grown into-but I also would not be in this situation either. I had taken a PTO day from teaching, to surprise her with flowers and a card gushing with emotions and those silly chocolate covered strawberries every woman seems to love. I logically planned everything to a T. I requested the day a month in advance, I had ordered the strawberries two weeks prior, and the card had been written the moment she left my home after our first kiss-when the emotions were still safe to bring to forefront. I had planned every single thing, except for factoring the possibility of something like this happening.

I had even written her birthday on my hand. I had checked it one final time before opening the door to her office, just in case I had somehow mistaken her birthdate. The sharpie marker faint from washing my hands so many times and excessive sweating, but still legible.

‘09/11’ it read.

She wasn’t in her office though, she wasn’t even in the building. Her coworkers’ flighty expression, and downward stare when I asked where my girlfriend could be is the last thing I can remember before the floor quite literally fell away. Roaring red and orange flames just inches in front of my face, its heat piercing my skin before I fell. I don’t know how many floors I must have fallen through, I didn’t count- I should have counted ! But, instead my thoughts were plagued with where Jenna could be. Had she taken the day off to get her nails done with Claire? Why would her coworker seem nervous then? The thought of her with someone else, another man, clawed its way through my chest. It synchronized with the searing pain in my spine. The emotional and physical discomfort collided, and instantly I felt my scorching throat close in on itself. Like like it always does whenever I let my emotions in through the sturdy walls of my logical mind.

I’ve never been enough for her or anyone, always a robot or a monster- never in between- never normal.

My eyes fall shut, as I clasp my aching throat begging for air to enter my lungs again. But the thoughts, the screams of people burning alive around me, the memory of my leg being severed from me, the agony of Jenna not being where I had planned she would be cause an eruption of panic.

“Count the colors baby” I heard Jenna coo, as she stroked the back of my neck, in a memory not too far away.

I gripped my steering wheel as the police officer behind me scanned my license plate. SI had been speeding again, an under calculation o mine, but I hated being late! She sensed my anxiety back then, she always knew

“It’s okay Jason love. Count the colors” she cooed again.

Nothing phased her, I envied her demeanor. She's always a warm beach compared to my chaotic storm.

I looked up at the traffic light on Melrose Ave, and began to time the intervals between each light change, as if her half way explained instructions made sense.

Red. Yellow. Green . I muttered to myself and felt the ache in my chest ease with each interval. How was she always so good at soothing me?

I felt myself drifting further and further into the warmth of the memory of her baby powder scent. The sound of her voice from that day and fragments of others all strung together until the panic seemed to completely disappear- almost as if my haggard breathing had completely ceased.

Crap. I HAVE TO STAY AWAKE! I internally screamed.

I used all of my effort to open my heavy eyelids half way, and draw in a small scratchy breath. I outstretched my hand behind me, feeling for the small gap between rubble where light poured in. I felt a breeze on the tip of my finger tips, hoping for someone to see them- and notice me. I felt a shift, in the air and rubble above me. Was it being moved away? Or falling in on me.

The area above me quaked and shifted. The flood of thoughts of possible death, and possible savior threatened to choke me again. I was never a great one for probability so instead of calculating, I refocused.

“Let’s count the colors Jenna” I whispered hoarsely, as a small tear fell from my eye. I can imagine it making a light streak, through my ash caked cheek.

I shift my blurred gaze from the commotion above me, to the reflection in the puddle, much fuller than it was 25 minutes ago. The traffic reflection itself started to quake with the shifting rubble. I can just make out the color interval through the falling debris.

Green.