He stood on the observation floor of the Empire State Building. He folded up his battered felt hat and shoved it into his coat pocket. He checked his pocket watch again, shook his head. It was early enough in the morning that the platform wasn't crowded with tourists. In fact, it was just him and a couple of maintenance people having a smoke.
He heard the noise before anyone else possibly could. Even though he knew exactly what was about to happen, he still felt his body go stiff. He thrust his hands into his pockets, watched the smokers go back into the building.
He walked to the south side of the tower and locked his eyes on the World Trade Center. He took in the solemn grey structures, the perfect blue sky surrounding them. He ran a hand through his curly mop and kept his gaze focused on the twin towers.
The roar grew louder in his ears. He felt himself grab the safety mesh in front as he spotted the plane....
He blinked back a tear as the plane crashed into the tower. He watched as the tower burst into flames, saw the explosion of gas, watched the ominous black smoke billow upwards.
He heard the second airplane above the growing din of sirens and horns, above the pounding of his hearts. He let out a gasp when the second plane smashed into the second tower. Felt the safety mesh dig into his hands when the burst of flame shot upwards, engulfing the second tower.
He let go of the fence and turned around. For all he had seen in his travels, it was still a horrific vision.
***
He was now inside the top of the Chrysler Building, staring out through a large round window. Both towers were engulfed in flames. He looked down at his hands, still surprised to see the grooves from the mesh. He felt a rumble in his stomach and forced himself back to the carnage. The South Tower collapsed in a billowing cloud of concrete and asbestos.
Soon after, the North Tower joined its companion, crumpling onto itself, spreading more dust and debris over lower Manhattan.
He told himself many times he could have prevented all of this from happening. He could have gotten involved. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd meddled.
He told himself that the bigger picture mattered, that this had happened, and to change things would cause ripples.
He told himself that there had been larger atrocities on this planet that he never got involved with -- The Mai Lai Massacre, The Holocaust, Hiroshima, Dresden -- so many others he could have helped out and prevented.
But he never understood why this event touched him so much, why he would return again and again to this date, this time, this catastrophe.
***
He stood in the window of the Chrysler building for a long time, afraid to move, to speak, to act.
He thought about what he would say to someone who had lost a friend, a loved one in the attack. What could you say to someone in that circumstance?
Chin up.
It's okay.
Keep hope alive?
How could you explain to someone that they were killed for beliefs, beliefs so foreign and twisted that the ones who held them would be willing to kill themselves and others for them?
How can you rationalise this?
How could anyone do this?
The rage took hold of him. He wanted to find those responsible, force them to be in the towers when the plane struck, have them dig through the rubble with their own hands till the flesh had been torn from them, have them face the families of the victims....
It would be so easy. He could find them and have them in lower Manhattan in less than five minutes.
But what would that prove? Would that make them understand? Would it even matter to people with such strong beliefs?
If the people responsible for causing this horrific act were willing to die for their beliefs, then how do you reason with them?
He'd asked his selves these questions many times, but found no answer.
***
He walked the streets of Manhattan, watched the vibrant residents of this city mull on the corners like cattle, crying openly, staring at the smouldering wreckage in the distance, tuned to radios, staring at storefront televisions to glean the latest information.
He saw the ten block long line of donors ready to give blood, saw the stretcher-builders, the rescue teams at the makeshift triage centers ready to embrace the wounded and damaged, saw the shrines to the dead and missing assembled, saw the display of flags.
He turned to a television mounted in one window. It played a scene of Palestinians cheering the news of the attacks. He was troubled by their reaction, troubled by how people who understood what happened in Manhattan all too well could celebrate this attack. He wanted to bring these people here, have them meet survivors, workers, all those connected to the events taking place.
He continued his long walk, getting closer to the destruction. He felt the acrid smoke penetrate his nose, tasted the grit and dust on his tongue. The streets were filled with rescue workers, already physically and mentally exhausted, but stopping to wipe their faces, suck some oxygen out of the tanks before marching back to the job.
The smoke clung to every surface, a choking cloud of concrete and other small particles too gruesome to contemplate. He noticed one of the rescue workers on one knee in the middle of a dust-covered and debris-filled street coughing loudly, painfully. One of his comrades came over, helped the coughing man to his feet, dragged him away from the carnage.
He lost track of time as he walked through the streets of lower Manhattan. And as much as he tried to filter all the images, noises, odours through his alien senses, he still felt the nagging pain in his hearts.
He knew the violence of this day would lead to more violence in the future. There would be bombings, air strikes, ground troops, collateral damage, new horrors visited on the denizens of this planet.
He knew that in the greater scheme of things, all the violence meant nothing but pain, terror, sorrow.
***
But he knew what to do....
He spent the long night among the ruins. He managed to commandeer some rescue gear to blend in. He dug up the rubble with his bare hands, helped direct the hoses in the fight against the continuous fires, spent a few minutes listening to the horror stories of men and women desperately trying to find their comrades against all hope, spent time in the galley kitchens fixing food for the tired workers who had no thoughts except continuing the long work ahead.
***
He left Manhattan on Thursday. He was exhausted and his hands were covered with scratches and blisters. He felt every minute of his 750 years. And yet, he felt reaffirmed as to why he knew the people of this planet would survive.
It might be a clichΘ, a hollow statement, but he saw all of the goodness, the kindness the generosity brought out from the events of Tuesday. He saw people putting aside their differences to help out, to do what was needed, not to worry about their own self-interests.
He knew he had to remember this moment, remember what he relearned here...
