Bone China (A Short Story)
The first thing I remember was the teacup perfectly in tact sitting on the floor. Bone china from Japan, cerulean in color with veins of white and a gold filigree handle. All completely untouched among the debris.
The second thing I recall is the ringing in my ears. Shrill yet muted making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, like Get out from under the desk that your leg is trapped under.
I brushed dust and rubble from my face and bent at the waist. Surveying the damage I realized that my apartment was gone. I could see the street and people running and bricks strewn across the pavement.
Oddly enough, panic was the last thing on my mind despite being pinned under my vintage 70’s desk. Thick, metallic and heavy as hell. You know, the industrial sized ones found in lawyer’s offices.
I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. What was I going to do? I can’t find another apartment right now on my budget and I cancelled my renters insurance 2 months ago to go on that business retreat with my Boss because I had hoped it would help me get promoted. It didn’t. This was just shit.
It’s a good thing I’m ground floor. I briefly remember thinking before the dust had settled.
I could see the gutted framework of my apartment building at the entrance. My HGTV tufted couch was in pieces and a part of me was saddened that I would never again have the cushion with the familiar rip near the seam or the forever smell of peppermint after a Christmas party debacle.
My thoughts scrambled. I had been shaken.
It was at this time that people started peeking their heads into the gloom. Kicking up swirling little dust motes in the morning light. I could see their mouths moving but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. They were yelling, that much I could tell.
I was quiet. I remember wondering why I didn’t yell out for help right away, or at least try. Later, despite not attempting to be noticed, I found out that even if I had tried to yell I probably would have damaged my throat. The debris that had caked my face had also coated my esophagus making it nearly impossible to make a sound above a croak.
Which, regardless, I should have been trying anyways. That’s what people are supposed to do when they are trapped under a desk and can’t move. Or when their entire apartment is in ruins.
I broke my ankle under the desk due to the explosion. I was told that the explosion came from the laundromat next door. The cause was still to be determined. There was speculation that it was a gas leak.
After being found and lifted up and out of the what was left of my apartment what I remember the most is the teacup. Delicate and unmarred from the surrounding damage. I scooped it up, clutching it to my chest and was lead from the wreckage.