A Letter to London

A letter to London 4

I lay here in bed.

I awoke 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 head all the way down to my aching back.

The soft, clean sheets caress my skin which provides some comfort and the light has started 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 out as habitual ended in terror.

 

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

The usual sights; finger tips crumbling chocolate brownies and waitresses pointing at menus.

Women clapping their hands with laughter.

The grinding of the coffee machine continuously humming in the background.

 A letter to London 3

It’s evening.

It’s Friday.

There’s noise and there’s music.

Each individual in the room is here either to gear up or to unwind.

 

My friend and I sat on stools at the back. It had been a busy day wandering the pearly streets by Oxford Circus.

We needed a rest. We chose coffee.

Draping our torsos over wood topped tables, nattering beneath oversized light bulbs, we waited for our coffee to arrive.

 

Then it began and it escalated rapidly.

First a crescendo of collective screams.

Then the crowd that burst the atmosphere and crumbled at my thoughts. 

 

Words stood out from their panic: terrorist, attack, gun, run. 

The situation stole our decision as they scrambled into the coffee shop. 

We were not leaving.

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The noise was ringing in my ears.

My stomach turning like the most merryless-go-round.

 

We got on the floor.

I curled up behind a bannister.

In the dark.

In silence.

Hoping from the depths of my soul that we would 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. Your heart pumps harder into your chest. Veins like live wires brimming with energy.

Movements erratic but movements 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.

Yet your imagination has no limits.

A letter to London 4.jpg  

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

I texted my dad.

I told him I was in a terror attack.

I told him I was on the floor.

I told him I loved him.

I told him this could be it.

And in an impossible attempt to relieve him from distress, I told him it was okay. 

 

All the while, possible scenarios flipped through my mind.

Men blocking the doorway. Men with guns or with knives. 

What would I do in each scenario?

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 held my friends hand tightly underneath the table and cried.

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

 

It transpires the Black Friday incident at Oxford Circus was a false alarm.

This does not make the terror any less real.

Nor does it make the incident any less significant.

24/11/17 was the day terrorism conquered in the absence of the terrorist.

My greatest fear. What comes next?

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