starting over…

Dear reader,

my name is Ann, I am 18…and I am dead.

This is my story…

I was born in south-west London on March 13 1987 as my parent's first child. My mother died minutes after giving birth to me and my father, devastated by the loss of his wife which not even his newborn daughter was able to cure, took his own soon after, leaving me alone in this big, big world. I grew up in an orphanage. I was a frail child, always rather sickly, seldom allowed to join the other children during playtime outside, too likely was it I'd hurt myself…again.

After I finished school, I found a job relatively easy and with it a nice little flat just for myself, without guards, without fellow students, without this feeling of being held captive in a cage, like a bird one would like to hear sing every now and then when every other entertainment failed to fulfil its purpose.

I loved my job, even though it wasn't the best paid one, but my colleagues were nice and I finally felt like I was allowed to deal with life on my own, make my own choices. People trusted me and asked me for advice and all of this gave me an incredible boost in confidence.

I took the tube to work every morning. I liked it, funnily enough. Of course it was always crowded and hot, even on the coldest winter day, but it gave me the opportunity to either read one of my newest treasures from the second hand bookshop just around the corner of my flat, or I was able to observe my fellow commuters. Have you ever done that? Sat somewhere and just watched other people? I love it. I love looking at them and guessing what their story could be. One tends to draw conclusions about somebody else rather quickly based on their looks or something they said. But if you have a closer look at a person, even if it's just for the length of a 20-minute ride on the tube, sometimes you have a totally different impression from that person afterwards.

The 7th of July 2005 started just like every other day for me. I got up early and had a long, hot shower before sitting down in my lovely little kitchen with a bowl of muesli and a cup of steaming, dark brown coffee.

I left my house shortly before half past 8, as usual, and walked a couple of minutes to King's Cross Station. It was busy as usual, not only with people commuting to work, but also with tourists, ready to crawl over London and its sights. People from all over Europe come to London every year and the way they try to find their next destination like a population of ants lost in their anthill always make me chuckle a bit.

The platform of the eastbound Circle Line was busy with commuters, but also a huge group of teenagers who were obviously on a trip to Spitalfield's Market, with their teachers. They spoke in a language I couldn't understand, maybe Spanish or Italian. I managed to get on the tube before them, thereby securing me one of the seats. The guy next to me was deeply absorbed in his newspaper, The Financial Times. His salt-and-pepper hair looked a bit ruffled, but his black suit was meticulously clean and pressed. Next to me sat a young Indian woman, also in a dark trousersuit. She was reading something on her phone.

I closed my eyes for a little and just listened to the chatter around me, the rustling of the newspaper when another page was turned, the distant music of somebody, who must be deaf by now, considering how loud the sound was, that came out of his earphones a couple of seats away.

The next thing I heard was an immensely loud bang. I opened my eyes, people were screaming, the air was hot and filled with bits and pieces of people's clothes, their personal belongings, and parts of the tube's seats, floors, doors, walls. A man walked towards me, asked me something, but I couldn't hear it. I just saw the movements of his lips, his worried look, his dark, blue eyes that went from my face, down to my torso and back up again. I was afraid. Slowly, I made my head move and I looked down. There was blood…everywhere. My white blouse was stained in those parts that weren't ripped to pieces and one of the tube's handlebars came out of my stomach. I looked back up into the man's eyes. He was kneeling in front of me now, his bloodstained hands on mine, carefully stroking them.

I think we both knew I wouldn't make it, but nevertheless he stayed with me. He talked to me even though I couldn't hear him. He showed me he cared, even though I didn't know him.

A little later I was standing next to the exit of Liverpool Street Underground Station. I watched as a young but very capable paramedic covered my body with a white cloth before it was carried away and placed next to others. We all stood there and watched the fire-fighters and police, the paramedics and the survivors, the shocked bystanders and the whole of the British nation, while they all tried to understand what had just happened.

It took me a while to understand as well. I'm not even sure I will ever fully understand. But at least I wasn't on my own. The young Indian woman is here with me and the guy with the salt-and-pepper hair. Sometimes we go back to Liverpool Street, sometimes we watch the commuters and tourists, but we never go down. We never go down into the tunnels of the tube, where our bodies where ripped out of their lives.

We know we have to leave this, us, behind. We know we have to start all over again…