Marco hadn’t slept well, the thoughts of his shortcomings at work kept him awake.
This time he was not going to be lucky. The big bosses were going to be there, and he was going to be on the spot.
Why did they have to come today? If they had chosen Friday instead, I wouldn’t be here! I would be in Acapulco drinking a cold coconut with rum!
He was already showering when the alarm went off, it was 6 am. He wanted to avoid peak hour, so he hurried and jumped in his car. The streets of Mexico City were already busy, but he was good behind the wheel, and he was moving faster than the others. He was aiming to arrive at 7:30, that way he could review his presentation one final time and print flashy handouts on the big new printer.
It was the 19th of September 1985. Suddenly, in front of Marco’s eyes the skyscrapers seemed to meet each other at the top as if they were made of flexible plastic, balancing for a few seconds before starting to collapse. His car bumping into the other cars, back and forth. Braking or trying to control the car didn’t help. The noise, a mixture of honking, crashing, screaming, glass breaking and buildings collapsing, contributed to the growing confusion, fear and desperation. He wanted to get out of his car.
When is this going to end? Am I going to die?
In no time, all went dark. Breathing was difficult, a cloud of dust and debris around him, stinging his eyes. He could feel some weight on his stomach and chest, arms immobilised, but his legs, he couldn’t feel his legs. He wanted to bend them and push whatever it was oppressing him, but had no response, no pain, no feeling, perhaps no legs.
The earthquake lasted 90 seconds, 8.1 on the Richter scale. Nearly 400 buildings collapsed. The official number of deaths didn’t match the reality lived by the population. The 48 hours of the aftermath felt even more catastrophic than the earthquake itself. The Mexican government was not prepared for such a disaster.
A communal willpower and strength formed. People organised themselves while already doing the job. Bare hands digging, lifting, whilst tuning the hearing, guiding themselves instinctively to where the survivors were trapped. It didn’t matter if it was family, friends or strangers. Everyone that could be saved was going to be saved. The brigades formed had a life of their own. They ran 24/7, self-guided.
Marco started to cry and then he stopped. I can’t waste fluids. I must cry without tears. His heart pounding so loudly. He tightened his eyes. I must survive. I will survive. Now, small breaths, control yourself. No more trying to move, no fighting the weight. Just small breaths. Listening carefully to the outside world and every now and then opening my eyes to try to spot some light. I will survive. I am alive and that is a miracle.
He tightened his eyes again.
Burnside Writers Group 