Nine Eleven (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 21

Orlando pounds the cement stairs. His boots fly upward, forward. He runs. He runs. He runs. "Edith,"the name excels the cadence of fiery raging, he flies through the stairs. "100!," he says aloud. The stair well is empty. Only smoke. Only fire.

He stops abruptly. The stairwell is broken. A gaping chasm standing in front of him offsetting his ascent. Its wider than he can jump. If he fell into it he would fall into his death.

Frustrated, he screams as he reaches for his ax and swings it against the cement wall with all his strength. The sound echoes loud inside the black stairwell. Sweat rolls off his face.

He can't make it across. The sound awakes the people on the other side of the broken stairs. They had been waiting for help. They couldn't see him through the smoke, but they heard him scream and his axe hit the wall.

"Help!"they scream. "Help us! We're trapped, we can't make it across! Help!," They can't see him behind the smoke.

Orlando hears their cries. They repeat them until it frustrates the quiet firemen. He stands helpless on the other side of the chasm. Fire and smoke brigade them. It roars about them, crawling, searching, hiding beneath, hiding around. It burns their concern, it screams their desire. Pieces of metal and wire hang and drip from the ceiling between the chasm, the walls, and onto the stairwell.

"Help us Mister! You have to help us!"

The cries nearly hurt Orlando. But he wouldn't let it.

He has to try to make it across. Though it seemed impossible. He has to make the jump. Orlando stares across the broken path upwards into the desperate eyes of the American's can't see him. He recognizes no one, but the native stare of desperation, helplessness bulges, their black eyes rise. He recognizes no one. No one who loved him, no one who helped him. And he thinks to himself:

"The men will forget me when they're safe. When I stretch my forgiving hand they will launch for hope and leave comfort, a comfort that I'll never experience. In the end what do they matter to me? What can I do with them? And what will they do for me? They're nothing. The honest fact is that I care so much-it betrays my better character-my love for Edith. Can I smother my thoughts of love with thoughts of benevolence, with philanthropy? My mind can make requiem, safe these people, be their hero, but my heart can never forfeit it's skin, it's reign, it's power over my volition, it's greed for Her. I don't need these people. Let them die, I'll have my own. My Edith, my bride!"

With this thought he sets his feet racing upward toward the lip of the chasm. He climbs fast to get momentum. He rushes with the quiet thought of love spurning him forward. And with one last light step he sets his body sailing over the abyss. He flies through the air without a sound. Slowly. Smoothly. Nothing but darkness waits beneath his flying feet. Only one arm can reach his farthest. He flies slow, his right hand extended, reaching for the other end of the broken stair case. The innocent people wait, hoping he makes the jump. His right hand clutches the last stair-and he makes it.

The rest of his body dangles over the darkness beneath him. He tries to pull the rest of his body up, but can't. He starts losing his grip. He grunts, trying to hold on for his life. For Edith.

Then hands grips his arm and pull him upward into safety. The pedestrians waiting for his rescue pull the firemen up into safety. The strangers all breath in relief. Assuming they found their savior.

"What are you gonna do now!?" the pedestrians ask Orlando. "Is anyone else coming!? Do we go to the roof!? Is anyone coming?! What do we do now!?", the citizens impel him with questions.

"It's over. There's no one coming. Not for you at least," Orlando says, staring blank into their eyes.

With his mind decided, continues to run up the stairs. They pedestrians watch him leave. And do nothing. They turn feel hope drain from their thoughts.