Tuesday {The Manhattan Trilogy #1}

The Second Hit (NT)

It burns, and not at all in a good way. Tears are threatening to spill from my eyes in large quantities. My mouth is open, gasping for any amount of life-giving air, but barely any reaches my lungs. I think I'm going to throw up all over my sister if I don't get help soon. If I need to die to end this pain, I'll gladly do it right now. This hurts so terribly bad.

The time is only 8:59 AM. A plane just exploded and disintegrated inside me. It happened thirteen minutes ago, while I was standing here totally minding my own business. I feel as if I am slowly fading away from Earth right now, and I'm struggling to hold on. I want this pain to end right away, but it's only getting worse every minute.

My twin sister, South Tower, is clutching my arm tighter than she ever has before, her fingernails leaving deep indents in my skin. I can tell she's trying to hide the tears on her cheeks from me.

"I think we should change back into towers again," she says solemnly, lightly shaking me to get my attention.

"Agreed, sis," I manage to wheeze. I can barely talk due to the amount of ash in my lungs.

We each head to our building self and lean against its north face. I feel my body disappearing into the tower. My voice and sense of sight vanish. My hearing and feelings, however, remain.

I listen carefully to people currently inside me. On the floors in and above the area of impact, I detect the screams of—Oh God—the hopeless screams and cries of people who are without a doubt going to be dead very soon. I can't cry when I'm a building, but if I could, many tears would be streaming from the eye of the severely wounded One World Trade Center.

There's a guy clutching my spire. I can definitely feel that. What in the world does he think he is doing? He's going to get himself killed! Well, I suppose there is some reason he's doing that. He's too far up to survive, so I guess he just wants one last view of the New York City skyline.

In the distance, a church bell is ringing. Nine deep chimes erupt from the church bell. It is now nine o'clock in the morning. The date is still Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

I listen harder to the people in me, the North Tower of the World Trade Center complex. I hear more screams, pleading, and prayers. I also hear running footsteps. I hear people calling their loved ones on their cell phones, a final desperate goodbye. Luckily, I can't see these thousands of horrified, suffering people. As a tower, I am completely blind to everything.

Are there going to be any survivors at all?

I worry very heavily. My maximum capacity is around 50,000 people. I can't imagine the possible death toll from this plane striking me! The death of fifty thousand innocent American citizens would be way too much!

I train my ears on Fulton Street. I hear the weeping of little children who have no idea what's going on. The wails of small babies disturbed by all the loud noises of the city and the disaster unfolding in it. Men running over the bridges, making it their first priority to escape the terror that just happened. Women rapidly asking each other for directions to the nearest hospital. They're already injured? It's only been fifteen minutes since the plane hit!

It's now 9:02 in the morning here in New York. The amount of damage caused in a mere sixteen minutes is too overwhelming. I can't possibly bear it any longer. Searing pain radiates from my large wound. I wish I could cry out right now, let people know that I do have a soul that hears and feels the pain of her fellow citizens, even though I am simply a building.

I think of my father, who still turns forty today despite the disaster. What's he doing at this exact moment? Is he still working at Sir's Café in the middle of all of this chaos? I wonder if he sees South Tower and I on the TV. Does my father realize that I'm in terrible pain? Did he see or hear the plane approaching me at all?

Mom is probably still at work. She is a teacher of trigonometry, which I certainly do not need to have knowledge of yet, at a nearby high school. Are the fifteen-year-old sophomores in her second-period class watching me burn? Do they even have any idea that I'm their teacher's daughter?

I wish my parents were both here, at our base. They would hug my sister and I to calm us as I burned. Mom would cry and desperately wish for me to somehow miraculously heal. Dad would drop down to his knees and pray many times.

Speaking of my Dad, today's his birthday. Why, oh, why? Why did it have to be on September 11, of all days? Why not the 12th? This morning, it seemed like a totally normal day to have a birthday, but now? Not so much. One of his daughters has been severely injured by a plane. I feel so terrible for my poor father. All because of me, his fortieth birthday will be totally ruined!

Wait a second, what's that sound?

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAM!

That sounds like another plane! I quickly turn back into a human to locate the source of the sound. It takes me just a couple seconds to readjust my eyes to the light. I look up at my burning tower self, then my wound, then at my tower self again. Is that airplane coming for me?

Then I see it, and where it is actually headed.

Flying in over the Hudson River, going lower with every foot, is a Boeing 767-222. I see the label on its wing. It's United Airlines flight 175, a plane flying in from the Boston Logan International Airport in the northern state of Massachusetts. But it's supposed to be taking its passengers to the Californian city of Los Angeles today, not here to New York! What is the pilot thinking?

The jet abruptly banks in what looks like a nose dive, heading in for the kill. The aircraft angles itself slightly, preparing to deliver the death blow. I gasp and cover my eyes with my hands when I see its target.

"SOUTH TOWER! NO!" I shriek, my voice already hoarse from screaming too much when I was hit.

I scream in time to see the plane seem to suddenly vanish and a large fireball erupt from my twin sister's side.