It was another week before I got out of the hospital. Something about life threatening injuries, broken bones, internal bleeding, something like that. All I knew was it hurt like hell.
Deborah had explained everything to me, during that week.
“You remember where we were?”
She’d held up a picture. “It was a pretty little place.”
I did recognize the picture. “The old Hamlin building. The one they want to make a historical site.”
“Not any more they don’t.” Deborah held up a picture of what was left of the building.
“Holy shit. What the fuck happened?”
The entire front of the building was gone. I had no other way to describe it. The rest of the building was damaged. There was no fixing this building.
“I remember you said it was too late.” She’d nodded. “Then everything went black.”
She nodded again, “And the wind screamed.”
I thought about it, trying to remember, “Yeah. The wind screamed. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“What was it. Bomb? Gas line? Some kind of space laser from up there somewhere?” I’d waved at the ceiling.
“No one knows.”
“No one knows. There’s no focal point, no point of origin, for the blast.”
“Can’t be. There has to be a point of origin.” My head had started to hurt. I didn’t need to be thinking that hard, and I knew it.
“Normally, yes. There’s no blast pattern either. No place on the front of the building with more damage than any other.”
“Can’t be. Uniform damage across the diameter of the blast doesn’t happen.”
“Then was it some kind of planned thing? Where everything was planted, and set to go off, and do the same damage everywhere?” I was thinking a planned demolition would have done the same damage across the entire front of the building.
“Harvey. There are no traces of explosives. None. Of any kind. Plastic. Thermal. Nothing.”
“None. They even called in the feds. And the feds found nothing.” Her eyes told me to stop asking what caused it. “No one can explain what happened.”
“Then how’d the building blow up?”
“Look, OK. Look at the picture. The building didn’t blow up.”
She was right. The damage was catastrophic, but was exactly the same kind of damage all the way across the front of the building. Nothing beyond the front of the building was destroyed. Knocked over. Jumbled. Glass broken. Papers blown toward the back of the building. Looked like you could clean everything up, and have a building someone had used a big ass saw on to lop off the front, so you could see a cross section of the interior.
“That’s not possible.”
Deborah had nodded. We’d sat there, neither one talking, for a while. I’d finally looked at the picture again, “And yet. There it is. It obviously happened.”
“It’s like your injuries.” She’d nodded at me. “Like how they describe your injuries.”
“How do they describe my injuries?”
“You don’t remember?”
I’d just frowned at her.
“OK. Let me tell you what they said.” She’d paused, to organize her thoughts. “They said it’s like a uniform shock-wave hit you.”
“Yeah. The same strength top to bottom, left to right.” She’d paused again. “Almost like you got hit by a wall of some kind. The doctors said it was like a wall of air ran into you. And because you were in the way, the air hit you, and didn’t reach me. Like you punched a hole in it that I fit through.”
She’d paused again. I’d looked at the picture again, and something snapped into place in my brain. “Crush damage.”
“The damage to the building. It looks like crush damage.”
It was her turn to stare at the picture.
“Deborah. It’s like someone stomped on a soda can. And crushed the entire front of the building.”
She’d looked shocked. Then her eyes had lit up. “That’s it! That’s what I was feeling!”
There I was, once more wishing I could understand what she felt. She was an empath, yes, but also something more. Sometimes I thought she could feel what the world around her felt.
“Harvey! That’s it!”
“It was a wall of air that crushed the front of the building!”
All I could do was stare at her.
The 3rd part of a story that’s writing itself, and telling me what to put on the pages. I have no idea where this is going. Part 3 is for Week 193 of Miranda Kate‘s Mid-Week Challenge. You can learn about Miranda’s challenge here. The stories people share for the weekly challenge are always little works of art, crafted with words, meant to be shared, and enjoyed.