Clockwise

The writer dich't remember how he ended up squished gains
the wall holding the limp corpse of his sixteen-year-old son, humming a French lullaby, and staring at New York City through the gaping hole in the wall.
He remembered fireworks, the angry sounds of sizzles and pops through the walls and outside the windows. The sounds built to a forte before engulfing the simple lobby in an exposition of heat and noise.
He remembered it raining hot rocks from the ceiling, dust swirling around the atmosphere.
He remembered waking up on the cold concrete that holds up his place of work. His head brushing against some ugly carpet that vaguely reminded him of sandpaper.
He remembered Peter.
Peter?
Peter.