Section 1: What was once a beginning is now an end

# Scene 1

It’s an inborn ability is what I decided, something that develops as you age, and in the beginning something I had no control over.  When the towers collapsed, more than 2,000 souls became one with mine, their memories, and their experiences; at the time I thought it was the low point, the worst it could get. Everything could only be uphill from there.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Needless to say I never planned this, never could have imagined this life, but this is what I am now. Press play, life goes on.

No words seem to be able to describe who I am, or rather what I am.  My mind a collective of individuals, their lives compacted neatly and wedged between my subconscious and reality. I had to formulate my own theories, my own ideas on the subject. One of which is that in order to live with 2,823 people's consciousness’s stuffed into my head, compromises would have to be made.

Again, like I said, that day in New York I thought to myself “this is the bottom, the low”, so let’s not start there, let’s start where everything really goes to shit.

- - -

The dank, dark room smells of mold and stale cigarettes.  Two men in black leather car jackets stand to either side of what appears to be the only exit.  A third man, smaller in stature than the other two, stands in the middle of the room.  He stands over a fourth man who is bound, hands behind his back, on his knees, bleeding.  The third man, the short man, is yelling, screaming, gun waving in hand, it is quite obvious he is angry about something.  I have only recently arrived, well I’m not sure that is the best way to describe my particular circumstance.  My name is Daniel, Dan for short, and my consciousness currently resides inside the mind of the bleeding man kneeling in the center of the room, I know him as Edwin.  While I am aware of the events happening around me, or I should say Edwin.  I am not really experiencing it, the easiest way to describe this is as if I am watching this through glass, almost feeling the cold of the room, almost smelling the thick air. I can feel the pain that Edwin feels, but only in the way someone might remember an injury, not as if I am experiencing it.  Everything feels like memories. Vivid, but distant memories.  There is a sudden surge of energy washing over me pushing me further from the window to reality....

My mind fast forwards, memories speeding past, just out of sight.  The hot steel of a smoking silenced gun barrel scorching my head comes into focus.  A vision of the weapon being field striped and cleaned stutters behind my thoughts.  Beretta, Model M9, weight: 33.6 oz, length: 8.5 in, effective range 50 meters, standard 15 round magazine...I can feel my mind retreating inwards, slipping.  Memories of somebody else’s life. The pain should have me screaming, I grit down on my teeth and force my mind to stay in the present, force myself to stay present.

He shouts something at me, the short mustached man holding the gun, but I'm in my head. I'm seeking the calm, the cool peace of ignorance and logic. But Claudio is screaming, prodding me with the hot gun barrel.  His hand tailored wool-silk two-button suit, white and blue striped shirt unbuttoned at the neck.  Stupid expensive Italian leather shoes, with their stupid pointy toes; I could vomit at their stupid-ness.

“What, are you fucking deaf now?” He screams, before pistol whipping me in the face. My hands tied behind me, on my knees, I'm sent falling. Crash, I come down hard, face on the cool moist concrete floor.  The warm metallic taste of blood lingers in my mouth.  The single overhead light cast shadows across the faces of the two men standing next to the door.  The slight bulges of firearms under their leather coats visibly apparent to me.  In my disoriented state I am unable to place my current location, although familiarity tugs at me.  Claudio’s black Italian leather shoes are scuffed.  A series of escape options bleed through my subconscious as I assess my surroundings.  There are currently seven different options, more if the two goons leave or are distracted.  Calculating my current physical state, Claudios reaction time, the number of bullets left in the magazine, and whether I wish to kill or simply maim him.  Suddenly his words interrupt my thoughts.

“I said, your whore isn't coming, she's dead.  Shot her right in the fucking head. I ruined that beautiful face of hers right before she begged me for her life.”

This catches my attention, and sets my mouth in motion, his words bringing me back from my thoughts, and back to the pain.  My cool calculated mind is now full of my burning desire to kill this man in his stupid fucking shoes.  This is the irrational passion that will get me killed.

In Russian I scream, “fuck you Claudio, fuck you I say. I'm going to fucking rip your eyes out, I am going to fucking smash your toes one by one with a hammer, I will fucking kill you....” I struggle to get up; he pauses, looking me in the eyes before laughing, causally swinging the gun in my direction before putting a bullet in my knee. I howl in pain before gritting my teeth.  My eyes are all rage as I stare at him.  My arms flex against the rope binding my hands behind my back.

The two men at the door move, ex Russian military grunts, heavy handed brawlers, the burlap sacks goes back over my head and I'm hoisted off my feet and dragged out of the room. Down a hall, out a door, I can hear an engine running, the sliding van door opens. My bleeding, broken body thrown in, right arm dislocates on impact.  I lay there a moment, listening to the hum of the van while the two men close the sliding door.  A moment later the sound of the passenger and driver doors opening and closing signal our departure.  As I feel the van beginning to move, my mind wanders inward and the outside world fades away as I slip from consciousness.  Yushua, the old man in the back of my head speaks to me, opens his mind to me. Slow deep breaths, my mind clears, Yushua and I stand on a vast white plain. Close cut white hair, khaki three piece suit, neatly trimmed beard.  Yushua stands there, raising a single index finger to his lips, kissing it once before blowing a quick short breath, sprouting a small flickering flame. My eyes are engulfed by its light and I ask, is this death?

Fade to black, cue transition.

# Scene 2

Tyler and I are just about finished with our overnight shift, on our way back from a call.  He rubs his eyes and continues silently intent on driving.  I lean over and stare at my reflection in the passenger side rear-view mirror, running my fingers through my short brown receding hair.  Rubbing the two day stubble on my face.  My blue eyes are bloodshot and tired.

It comes in over the radio. 7:38 am, a cardiac arrest, World Trade Center, south tower, 56th floor.  I relay to dispatch that we are quarter mile out, Tyler hits the lights, the sirens roar to life.  Gulping down the last of my water, I ready myself the way a sprinter might before a race, visualizing the movements.  The tired eyes are now focused and alert, ready.

The vehicle stops, the transmission lever sliding through the gears to park, my door is open, Tyler is only seconds behind.  There is no stress, no worry, there is nothing unusual about today, this is “my normal” I tell myself. 

I have the stretcher and backboard out, Tyler is tossing the AED and crash kit to me.  Everything strapped in we begin to run.  Lobby security is already holding the doors, a man in suit, 2-way radio in hand posted at the elevator, override key in hand.  This guy is a pro, calm faced he radios up relaying our ETA, then without a word begins relaying what he knows of the situation to us.  Tyler takes notes while I check the equipment and place the stretchy, black, medical grade nitrile gloves on my hands.  I can’t help but wonder how we made it here first, with a fire station across the street.

54, my hands tense on the cart, I roll my head working out a kink.

55, deep breath, hold. 

56, exhale, push, go.

The motions came like breathing, time is a motionless blur of speed, and before I can believe it we’re back in the elevator.   The man strapped to the stretcher in front of me breathing easy, oxygen mask fogged with humidity.  I check his pulse one more time before we come up on the ground floor.  Dispatch comes on over Tylers radio, telling all units to set up a perimeter half a mile out from the towers.  Tyler looks at me, brow squinted in a question; the same I’m about to ask.  The elevator dings and the doors open and that’s when everything makes sense.  The building shakes, shudders violently.  Debris begins falling, my eyes lock with Tylers and we begin running, pushing the stretcher towards the doors.  He runs ahead, the lights flicker out, the lobby is filled with people rushing to the doors.  I push on, somehow making it to the door Tyler is holding open.  “Lets go!” I yell to him as I exit.  Pieces of the building fall from the sky, I don’t bother heading to the ambulance, instead opting to sprint down the two block to the lights of a fire truck.  Screams and explosions fill the air behind me, all which seem just outside my narrowly focused consciousness.  My whole world right in this moment is the two blocks ahead of me, tunnel of concrete and steel. 

“That was close.” I say, turning to my right to look at Tyler as I arrive at the perimeter by the NYPD, not realizing he’s not there.  I stop, paramedics rush in, one grabbing the stretcher the other is speaking to me.  My mind goes blank for a second before I begin running back to the collapsing towers.  Debris from the buildings and the plane fills the air, dust, smoke, it’s thick with the particles of destruction.  The paramedic tries to stop me, yelling at me to stop, but with the crash bag still slung over my shoulder I continue to run.  In my six years as an Army medic I didn’t see combat until my last tour, when I was assigned to a UN relief effort.  Even then it was only the collateral damage of war I witnessed.  What I am seeing now, before my eyes is only what I can imagine a battlefield looks like.  Series of secondary explosions continue, the streets are covered in glass and the buildings groan as it shifts under its own weight in ways that they were never designed to. 

As fast as everything is happening, my brain slows it to a near halt.  The sounds of the carnage blend into one singular, deafening sound.  The visibly injured are scattered around ground zero, I run through the mass of people fleeing.  I slow my pace, and my eyes scanning those passing me.  I yell his name, and continuing moving forward.  I near the building, complete chaos engulfing me and as I am about to turn back I see him, unconscious woman draped over his shoulder and holding the hand of a little girl who couldn’t be more than 8 years old.  This is all moments before the softball sized piece of debris comes tumbling down the side of the building, tumbling against the exterior before ricocheting, hitting me square in the head.  There is a millisecond of warmth before the black engulfs me for what seems like seconds.  I awake thirty minutes later, feeling like a major league homerun champion took a (describe specific characteristics of a baseball bat, weight, wood, etc) to my head.  And then there was the noise, the high pitch buzz ringing in my ears.  I write it off as a result of my head injury before sitting up and taking in my surroundings.  The familiar site of the inside of a (describe a specific ambulance model, ford f 350), the back doors open, facing (direction of towers) 3 New York city blocks from ground zero.