9/11 Creative Writing

My paintbrush clatters onto the desk as I notice a white minuscule dot on my fingernail. Not me, not me, not me. Please not me. I’m gonna have a heart attack. I push back on my chair, trace a circle round my heart, then spring up and pace round my attic room. This is ba-a-a-a-d bad bad.

“Alex your dinner’s ready,” my mum calls from the bottom of the stairs.

I fling open my wardrobe. Carefully start folding clothes into a rucksack. If I'm gonna lose my mind the least I can do is lose it in style. Having packed my most favourite clothes I put on some ultra trendy shoes which go with the outfit I’m wearing.

“Alex dinner. Did you hear me?”

Instinctively I snatch up my paint tin. Shove it into the bottom of my pack as I make my way over to the

That’ll be me in a couple of years, perhaps less.

Not happening. Not happening.

I totes feel super healthy meaning I can’t be sick. Silly little spot.

Blinking back any more tears I find my feet. My hands shake. Ignoring those shakes I edge away from this alley. Part of me wants to go home. Can’t ‘cause they’ll confine me to my room until my mind starts diminishing then do me a mercy killing. That happens to a lot of young people. Happened to poor Jess. Not me. I want to live. A silly spot.

Where shall I go?

My feet wander out into open streets. Shabby citizens moan and murmur to themselves as they drift about in dazes. The odd coherent person walks by me either looking vacant or distressed. I crane my neck back trying to feel a breeze against my face. Nothing. I rarely feel breezes. I’ve heard air circulates better outside of Lundune. Outside. Yeah I’ll leave Lundune.

Herm which way is outside? I come to a standstill and slowly spin round on the spot. Look down streets trying to figure which one would be best to take. This is the first time I’ve come this far out my neighbourhood alone; sometimes I get to go to Bloomsbury with our school to support the basketball team. My dad told me the rest of the world was too damaged to venture out into. Mum was less pessimistic but eventually agreed with Dad after they had a blazing row because she took me on a ferry over to France on one of her jobs. That's the only

Perhaps they know a way out.

I wave. They ignore me. Maybe they didn’t see me. “Hi there.” I go over to the porch they’re sitting round. They look at me real slow with distant eyes. Their minds are leaving them. How awful. "Do you know a way out of the city?"

"Mister Hans," says a boy. The left side of his face is completely grey. His finger slowly points over to a street vendor who has a crowd of customers gathered round his wares