Genevieve
I FEEL LIKE I'M SCREAMING.
But I know I'm not. I know I'm not making any noise because I'm too in awe of the thick, dark smoke that billows through the room, clouding everything that's more than a few feet away from me. The stench is intense, and the smoke traverses down my throat and into my lungs as I regain consciousness again.
I hadn't realized I'd been knocked unconscious until my eyes are fluttering open and everything sinks in. A dull throb emanates from my head and I find fresh blood spots speckled next to me on the mattress, presumably from a new wound on my head. Horrified, I raise my gaze and gasp.
The ceiling has collapsed in on itself. The smoke wafts above me through the open ceiling. The stars in the sky become concealed behind the thickness of the smoke clouds as I choke again, diverting my attention to the room around me.
That's when I see the gaping fucking hole in the middle of the room.
And behind the smoke, I can't make out another mattress or Ford.
"Ford?" I call out, my voice hoarse from the coughing as my lungs strain.
There's no response.
"Ford!"
As I push myself off the mattress, I glance back up at the ceiling and down at the hole in front of me. I'm sure behind the smoke there's more rubble and parts of the ceiling, but that's where Ford is, and maybe some missed him and cascaded down the hole into whatever lies beneath this storey of the building.
Another coughing fit wracks my body as I convulse under the vehemence of it. As I lean over, I stare in horror at the shackles that are still sealed around my wrists and ankles. A loud groan filters from somewhere in the building as something else from the structure of the roof waterfalls into the pit in front of me—some sort of large, heavy panel. It lands with a heavy thud in a matter of seconds.
If a bomb exploded, why wasn't the tick-tock sound for longer? Why did it only start moments prior to the explosion? And why hasn't the explosion killed both Ford and me? I rightfully have a distinct lack of knowledge in the realm of bombs, but one thing I know for certain is that, surely, we should have both just died.
Unless Ford is dead, and he took the full brunt of it...
My body stills and I produce a choking noise that has nothing to do with the smoke. Throat painfully dry, I retch and sob simultaneously, frantic as I shout Ford's name repeatedly, but it's to no avail. He doesn't call back out to me, and nor can I hear anything over the creaking of panels and floorboards as the infrastructure of the building remains so painstakingly precarious after the explosion.
But if we weren't supposed to die from the explosion, does that mean there's more to come?
"Ford!" I scream.
The silence is heart-wrenching.
Staggering to my feet, I cautiously tiptoe around the edges of the hole, careful to test out each step before I shift my weight each time. There are a few daring creaks before I hastily move on, but before I know it, I'm out of chain and can't go any further. But at least now I can see Ford.
Then I scream.
Half his body is blanketed by large wooden boards and several bricks lay too close for comfort near his head that features too fucking many wounds to be safe. Blood gushes out of a particularly nasty one in his hair, and the brick that caused that damage still rests on his skull. His body is limp, still, and as the smoke continues to dance in front of me, it's too much disfiguration to determine if Ford's breathing.
