Walking Through The Tunnel Short Story

I walked through the tunnel at dusk. The same route I had been down for months. I saw the familiar warm light coming through the end, and stopped to view the shadow of my hand on the tunnel wall. It was like a ritual to me, and acted as a method to remind myself I exist, and that the hand and body I see is my own. I still wait for the moment I will become part of the world again.
I used to drift in and out of people’s lives, lacking an identity. I often felt like just a disconnected entity trying to fix other people’s lives because It felt impossible to make a connection with anyone. After years of feeling too much and then suddenly not feeling anything at all, you could probably imagine the confusion that went on mentally after that.

This was all triggered about 8 years ago (when I was 9), in the same tunnel, the same day.
Driving to school that morning, I gazed out the window in the passenger seat at the trees passing in a blur. The sky was a solid pale grey and raindrops skittered down the car window. Today was Red’s birthday, and we’d eat cake and sing songs while everyone would run around laughing, constantly stuffing their mouths with food. We pulled up to the front of the school, and I said goodbye to my mom. I caught the figure of my friend Ivy on the grass and started to run towards the old, dark, peeling front doors of the building.

As I suspected, the day went by quickly.

After finally pushing open the doors to the cool, fresh air, I could see the buses pulling up to the curb and walked very slowly to the group of kids waiting to go home. Finally we boarded the bus. I plopped down next to a girl named Ellie in the very back. As soon as we started moving, the bus got loud and cheerful. As we approached a winding road, laughing and singing, everyone cheered. We all saw the abandoned tunnel that everyone loved going under. Tunnels held some sort of mystery, and the anticipation of seeing the sunlight at the end excited us as kids. Suddenly the expression of joy and excitement froze as we heard a loud cracking noise from above us. Before any of us could utter a cry of fear, chunks of rock hit the top of the bus, crushing the front part. I remember someone grabbing my arm and uttering a frightened, “Enna.” It was little Ellie. More chunks of rock fell from above us, and I could hear echoing screams and coughing coming from classmates. Ellie called my name again. This time sounding more desperate. Rubble was beginning to build up, thick dust started to cloud my vision, I couldn’t make out where anyone was. Next to a crushed metal scrap, I could see an opened window and crawled towards the only sign of hope. I squeezed myself into the rectangular opening, barely making it out. Now standing up, I ran as fast I could, choking on tears and dust. I did not know the direction I was going, I only

knew there had to be a light at the end of the tunnel.
I was the only one who survived that day. They rebuilt the tunnel 4 years later, on the same backroad where few people use now. Sometimes I still hear stories that no one can walk all the way through it without hearing voices and seeing kids that died. Ever since that day I have never felt “real.” I fell into depersonalization from guilt that I lived and no one else did.