All was silent for about five minutes when a tumultuous echo reverberated off the walls, shaking my entire home. Hurried strides dashed down the staircase, pounding on every step with much force and speed. I curiously leaned my head around the couch, anxious to see who had been hurtling through the house. My mother's frantic body slid into view as she rounded the stairs, her pale-brown hair flailing behind her.
"Charlotte! Oh my god, oh my god," she exclaimed in fear. Her bewildered eyes were stretched wide open, like she had just seen an apparition. My mother began to breath heavily, inhaling and exhaling rapidly as though her oxygen supply had been diminished. All color had immediately drained from her face, as if there was an imaginary plug someone had pulled. Sun rays danced through the shutters in the room, making her bright cerulean eyes sparkle amidst the tears that began to form. An uneasy feeling rose in my chest as she ran to me, cell phone clutched tightly in her left hand, the other searching for the television remote.
"Mom, what's going on?" I asked worriedly. The mother I once knew had vanished in that instant, turning into a wild animal as she threw blankets, pillows, and couch cushions in a desperate attempt to locate the remote control. After finally uncovering it, she fumbled with the power button that would turn on the T.V., instantly, a televised news broadcast appeared on the screen, featuring a shaken middle-aged man with a hastily buttoned Polo. His large bald head was a fiery-red shade, and the expression plastered against his face was ridden with distress and panic. He was midsentence by the time I began to listen.
"—has been reported by whoever has gained control of the aircraft. They have reached out to air traffic control stations repeatedly saying this bone-chilling message." The transmission changed before my mother and I, replaced by a closed caption and audio of a Middle Eastern man who spoke with broken English.
"We have taken control. We have your passengers. We are currently piloting your airplane. No one will survive—not even us. Tell your people what is happening. Tell your people about our group, they will know who we are. Tell them to cower in fear. Tell them to say their goodbyes to their loved ones. This is only the beginning. La ilaha illa'llah."
My breath got caught in my throat, restricting my lungs to pump oxygen to my
brain to process what was presented before me. I couldn't take my eyes off of the television. I felt compelled to keep watching.
"Charlie! Get in here now!" Mom called out, her voice jagged. She kept shaking her head, and placing her clammy hands to her mouth in fear as the broadcast continued, too afraid to believe what was happening.
My brother entered the room, confused as to why our mother called to him so urgently. He came briskly to my side, sitting on the ottoman that was by my feet. Brows furrowed, he intently watched the screen until he realized what had occurred. Charlie muttered only one word.
"Dad." I peeled my eyes off the television to face my brother. Mom turned quickly to her son.
"W—what?" she whispered, petrification crawling through every letter.
"That's Dad's plane. The 757. That's his plane." Though my mother and I were looking directly at him, Charlie never altered his vision, continuing to stare at the horror portrayed in front of him. "Dad's on that plane."
The T.V. seemed to be drowned out by the endless, soundless sound of silence. Though there were no noises made, the room seemed to implode in a buzzing echo that ceased to stop. I think I was only me who heard it, for my mother began to repeatedly murmur "Oh my god, oh my god," over and over again, like it was the only phrase she knew. What Charlie had said seemed foreign, as if he hadn't uttered a word at all.
Guilt struck me like a tsunami, submerging my mind into a torrential ocean of emotion. Waves of anger rose and grew, crashing heavily against my body. A whirlpool of rage spun around and around, wrenching me to and fro, in an attempt to drag me into its depths. Dad is going to die and the last thing I told him was that I hated him. Dad is going to die and the last thing I told him was that I hated him. Dad is going to die and the last thing I told him was that I hated him.
In that moment, I didn't care about Mom. I didn't care about Charlie. I didn't care about myself. I wanted Dad. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to apologize for being such an ungrateful daughter. I wanted to hug him forever. I wanted to be young again, holding his hand as he walked me to school. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him what I had been planning for his upcoming birthday—I had saved up my allowance to purchase him a new Les Paul guitar. I wanted to thank him for always being there for him, even if I hadn't always been there for him. I wanted to make up for all of the ugly I have generated with my words and actions, and instead show him what beauty I can create. I wanted to hold onto him and never let go. I wanted to hear his voice one last time. I wanted to see him one last time. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him.
But I wanted too much. I was selfish. If I truly wanted those things, I would have already done so. Instead, I was selfish. A selfish daughter. A daughter who took her father's love for granted and twisted it to the point where he didn't want her anymore. A daughter who caused her father to say "this not how your mother and I raised you . . . why can't you be more like Charlie?" Why can't you be more like Charlie? Charlie wouldn't have told his father he hated him. Charlie wouldn't have told his father he never wanted to see him again. Charlie wouldn't have lied.
"Charlotte," a voice resonated through my eardrums, ripping me back to reality. My vision cleared enough to find my mother's face inches away from mine. Her cheeks were a shade of pink that only transpired when gallons of tears were shed. I was staring into the eyes of a woman whose beloved husband was brutally snatched away from her. From her son. From her daughter. From everything. "Charlotte, honey," she repeated.
"I told Dad I hated him," I tried to vocalize, but was unsuccessful. Hiccups came out instead of words as my mind desperately searched for something to say, something I could say. "C—can we call h—him?" My mother's eyes fell from mine and landed on her cell phone, still clutched tightly in her left hand.
"I—I tried, honey, but I think—I think—well," she trailed off, "I tried calling him multiple times, but I think—I think . . ." She couldn't finish her sentence. But I knew where she was going to say. I stood, passing my mother as I walked towards the television until I was able to make clearly what was presented upon the screen in front of me, for my eyesight had begun to blur, for I had incessantly been rubbing my eyes.
The same man as before stood before me speaking words I could not comprehend. The few I was able to hear included "plane", "terrorists", "bomb", and "explosion". That was all I needed to know. My father was the missing puzzle piece in my life, unable to ever be obtained again. He was unethically torn out of my family like a page in a book.
That was it.
That was the end.
