9/11

003.

Fast.

Too fast.

A maelstrom plays in my mind; everything is spinning, fuzzy.

The sour odor of vomit upon the ground.

Red stains the floor.

And we are going way too fast.

Someone help us.

God help us.

We are going too fast.

Where are you?

It shakes in my hand, the telephone. My legs feel heavy. I realize it—I’m cemented. I’ve been cemented to the floor and I can’t move. Reduced to nothing: a shivering mass, cornered. I am scared.

What is happening?

Hijack. We’ve been hijacked.

Look out the window.

Water.

Buildings.

“Oh my God, we are way too low.”