Safe House

Day Three

Safe House Four

            Now my arm is around Birch’s shoulder and she isn’t trying to escape, so I think I’ve made some progress.

            She’s crying again-and how I wish she wasn’t. Every time she cries, it breaks me. It breaks me to see such a kind soul so broken, so hurt to the point where she can no longer even attempt to shrug it off, to say everything’s okay and put on a fake smile. If you pretend you’re happy for long enough, you’ll become happy. But if you can’t even pretend to be happy, then that’s the saddest you can be.

            And then the people around you should be able to help you-but I just don’t know what to do, what to say. And it’s left me in a constant state of confusion-for how do you comfort someone’s heart when you’re not even sure what’s wrong?

            Speaking of constant state of confusion, we got the radio to work. It started off extremely static-filled, a constant state of annoyance that went on for all of yesterday and wanted to make me rip out all of my hair multiple times. But now we’re getting a signal-a news station, thank god. It’s a terrified young, male newscaster, and I can picture him sitting in his radio station, his hair messed up and his tie on backwards as he tries to get over the fear that’s been placed on him. And from what I’ve heard, I don’t blame him.

            “More updates on the Boston subway attack,” he started, his voice shaking the first time we got the radio to work. “The terrorists have not been identified yet, but it appears that they are travelling in a navy blue SUV with Connecticut plates, numbers that have not been distinguishable yet through security camera footage. They were last seen going north, but at this point could be as far south as New York City to as far north as Quebec City. Please keep on the lookout for any car matching this description that is speeding or driving in an abnormal manner, and remember to call our hotline for ANY suspicious activity.” And then I was glad that I was here at camp, not down in the city, which was probably in total lockdown, and you couldn’t drive three feet without being called a terrorist. Then again, at least I’d be with my family that way. And wasn’t this worse than lockdown at home?

            The man’s voice went somber, and I could sense him trying to keep his composure. “Another has been added to the list of twelve dead. Haydn Harriman, a sophomore at M.I.T, was on the Green Line train closest to the site of the nerve gas release. Helping those older than her escape to safety first, she died of asphyxiation and trained personnel recovered her body this morning. Our hearts go out to the family mourning Haydn, as we should all be grateful for her selfless act.” And then the radio turned back into static and I was left with my thoughts, in a state of confusion and terror and sorrow for those I had never heard of before in my life.

            Birch’s cheeks were saturated with tears, her body shaking. I walked over to her.

            “It’s tough to hear, isn’t it?” Was that insensitive, or was I just being easy to talk to? I’m still not sure, to be honest, but she fell onto the ground and let it all out.

            “My dad-“ she gasped. “He rides the Green Line to work every day-what if he was hurt? What if he was killed? I just want to know,” she breathed, gasping for air and clenching her matted black locks.

            “It’s okay,” I said, rubbing her back in a circle. I was devastated by the news too (terrorist attacks were my worst nightmare, and now we seemed to be caught right in the middle of one.), but I couldn’t show it. I had to be the stronger person, if only for a minute, only until Birch was better and could go back to constantly upstaging me, the perfect bastard. “It’s okay. I promise. I know it’s hard to think about, but we know nothing about the attacks really. When does your dad go into work?”