Just woke up from a nightmare similar to this and decided to write to help maybe make me feel better an be able to get back to sleep. Please let me know what you think.
I thought it would be like in the movies. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I did it because I was scared for them and wanted to make sure they got out, but as I was helping rush everyone out of my school’s burning building, the rules of orderly evacuation long forgotten, I had no doubt in my mind I would make it out. I never worried about whether I would live or not. Never have, and never will. But this…this was different. A small portion of my mind remembered all of the movies and television shows I had seen where the hero always makes it out at the last second. They ALWAYS get the last person out, and they ALWAYS run out of the building just in time to just barely miss getting blown to smithereens, maybe a few flames licking their calves or feet, but nothing life threatening. Nothing crippling unless the plot called for it.
Well, I guess the plot of my life called for it. I didn’t dive out of the door just at the last second with barely a scratch. I didn’t make it out with only a few flames attached to my pants. I didn’t lose a limb or get paralyzed. I didn’t make it. I never even made it to the front door. And yet…I’m okay with all of that. I was doing the right thing. I was doing what I love-helping-and I was proud. I have no regrets with how I went out. Death by explosion while helping get others to safety? That’s pretty awesome. It’s how a hero would want to go, doing what they love. Whoever controlled my story, wrote my character, and gave me my love of helping, I thank them. I loved being the helpful person I was, and despite some times where I felt my life was boring, I loved the life he/she had given me. I have no qualms with my story, except one. Could the writer have at least let me finish saving my sister?
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