Tears for myself. For what I’ll never have. For every person I’ve lost. Every person I’m about to lose.
Eyes locked on the rising surge, I splash through the water to my kitchen. I slowly lift myself to the countertop, feet dangling. I pull out my phone once more.
I need you.
Not delivered.
I love you.
Not delivered.
I’m sorry I never told you.
Not delivered.
Just know you were the last thing I thought about.
Not delivered.
I’ll love you until the end of time.
Not delivered.
Asher
Disaster is simply a mediation between damage and growth.
—My Therapist
Something hard hits my house minutes before sunrise, jolting me awake. My hand grasps clumsily for my phone, hoping to find an update from Jocelyn. Instead, a series of emergency alerts litters my lock screen, and my mom has texted sixteen times, asking if I’m okay. Even with only a single bar of service, my answering text of reassurance goes through. Thanks, Verizon.
No such luck with my attempt to call Joss. It rings once, then disconnects.
With a sigh and a quick face rub, I rise from the bed and head to the window.
Holy shit.
The world on the other side of the curtain is a hellish landscape of wind, rain and debris. The sky is a churning mess of terror. I run through the house to my front door and step out onto the porch. The street is still visible, but the ditches are overflowing. Neighbors’ houses are dark. Power must be out.
With my minimal service, I prowl the internet for information. News sites won’t load, but Twitter or whatever it’s called now is going strong. #HurricaneFranklin helps tremendously.
My stomach clenches into knots. Snips of roofs collapsing. Pictures of boats crashing into homes. Video feed of the storm surge drowning the beaches. Maps of the expected wreckage.
The cone shifted while I was sleeping. It’s making landfall on top of me right now.
Category 5. Wind speed 155 mph. Storm surge twenty feet. Catastrophic damage.
How was the forecast so wrong? Thirty-six hours ago, we weren’t even in the cone. When I fell asleep, a Category 2 storm was heading two hundred miles east of me.
Woke up to hell on earth.
Each video is worse than the last, but I search for clues about the flooding. Where is it? How far has it spread? Another attempt to call Joss fails. Send her a text instead.
Are you okay?
No answer.
My dark house is suddenly too dark, so I dive for the wall switches. Light floods the room. Thank god. At some point, the backup generator must have kicked on.
