My boyfriend asked why I was going. He said the fire didn’t seem like big news. “Why are you wasting your time?” he asked as I walked into the living room. Then everything blew up.
Every door inside my apartment, hinges and all, was ripped out of the walls. So was my air conditioner. My big fan split right in half. My massive living room windows flew at me. The glass didn’t just shatter; the windows themselves flew clean off. I genuinely, even now, have no idea how I am not dead. I stood in a whirlwind of nails and glass and splintered wood. I saw Sunday for a split second. Then we heard loud humming that sounded like planes, and within moments, the second blast hit.
I was barefoot and had glass in my feet. My legs were bleeding, but only at the bottom because I luckily had changed into my jeans. We lunged at the front door, then hid in the intact bathroom, not knowing what to do. When the humming stopped, we dashed into the rubble and started throwing passports and cash and anything valuable into bags to leave. Then we paused, took a moment to look at each other caked in dust and decided there was no point. We didn’t know what might come next.