Terror Attack

I lay here in bed. I have woken early. It’s 6am.

Last night, I learned the meaning of terror. To fear pain and trauma. To fear death.

The double pillow is supporting my body weight, from my head down to my aching back.

The clean sheets caress my skin which provides some comfort as morning light begins to seep through the blinds.

Soon it will be a new day.

When I close my eyes, I am on the floor of the coffee shop. What started as habitual had ended in terror.

I remember the sounds of friendly chatter and the clinking of cups as they are gently lifted and placed back down onto polished white saucers.

The usual sights of fingertips crumbling chocolate brownies and waitresses pointing at menus. Women clap their hands with laughter. The grinding of the coffee machine hums in the background.

It’s evening. It’s Friday. There’s noise and there’s music. Everybody is here to gear up or to unwind. My friend and I sit on stools at the back after a busy day wandering the streets of Oxford Circus. 

Draping our torsos over a wood-topped table, nattering beneath oversized light bulbs, we wait for our coffee to arrive.

I take my first sip of a bitter flat white and then it begins.

Words stand out from the sound of panic as crowds of people flee Carnaby Street. Shoppers cry out “terrorist” and “he’s got a gun” as they scramble into the coffee shop.

We are not leaving.

The noise of such a notion is ringing in my ears. Oh my, we are not leaving. 

We sink under the table and get onto our knees. My stomach is turning like the most merryless-go-round. I curl up behind a bannister in the darkness and in the silence, hoping from the depths of my soul that we will get out of this alive.

When you truly believe death may be but minutes or seconds away, it’s fascinating how your instincts change.

Your body physically changes. Your eyes widen and your heart pumps harder in your chest. Veins, like live wires, brimming with energy. Movements erratic but sharp. Your thought process is an immediate production line of survival. What do I need to increase my chances of getting out of here alive?

And you take those actions immediately. Without analysis. Without hesitation. You become totally selfish to the moment. There is no second guessing what your recipients may think and yet your imagination has no limits.

I reach for my phone on the wood-topped table beneath the oversized light bulbs.

I text my dad.

I tell him that I am in a terror attack.

I tell him that I am on the floor.

I tell him that I love him.

I tell him that this could be it.

And in an impossible attempt to relieve him from distress, I tell him that it is okay.

All the while, possible scenarios flicker through my mind. Of men blocking the doorway with guns or with knives. 

What would I do? How intense would the pain be? Which did I prefer?

Would I give my life to avoid torture or could I brave the struggle?

I hold my friend’s hand tightly underneath the table and cry.

I cry for my life and for her life and for everybody else’s lives that I can feel around me in the dark, silent coffee shop.

 

The Black Friday incident at Oxford Circus was a false alarm.

This does not make the terror any less real.

Nor does it render the incident insignificant.

November 24, 2017 was the day effects of terrorism were felt in the absence of the terrorist.

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