The Aftermath by Angela Patera

Angela Patera was born in 1986 in Athens, Greece. She is an ESL teacher and a mother. Having studied English Language and literature at the National University of Athens, she pursued a Master's Degree in Cultural Administration and Communication. Her main field of interest is the representations of womanhood, race, and disease in Culture (especially literature).

The Aftermath

On September 7, 1999, at 14:56:51 local time, a powerful earthquake measuring 6.0

on the Richter scale struck near Mount Parnitha in Athens, Greece. This seismic

catastrophe, occurring in dangerously close proximity to the Athens metropolitan

area, inflicted profound devastation. Over 100 buildings, among them three major

factories, succumbed to the violent tremors, trapping countless victims beneath their

ruins. Tragically, this unrelenting quake claimed 143 lives. One of them was my

brother, John.

That day had been truly exceptional, thus far. My mum, enjoying a rare day off from

work, had taken John and me shoe shopping. I bought a pair of sleek Nike Air

sneakers. My evening plans were set: a trip to the local cinema complex to watch

Armageddon with a friend. John’s mood remained persistently somber throughout the

day. He lamented about the perceived monotony of his life, burdened by the

impending start of his senior year in high school, endless homework, and a recent

breakup with his long-time girlfriend. When I invited him to join us for the movie, he

nonchalantly dismissed the idea. Standing tall and muscular, with dreadlocks reaching

halfway down his back and a face adorned with numerous piercings, he deemed

himself too cool to accompany two 13-year-olds to the local cinema complex for a

blockbuster movie night.

Mum wanted to pop to the supermarket so she swiftly took us home to resume our

quarrel. Once inside, John retreated to his bedroom while I sought refuge in my

parents’ bedroom. There, I settled on the bed, turned on the TV, and chanced upon an

episode of Baywatch. I cranked up the volume and made myself comfortable. In the

background, John’s hardcore punk music blared through the bedroom walls, grating

on my nerves. I was about to storm into John’s room and give him an earful when I

suddenly heard a thunderous sound. Initially, I mistook it for an airplane crash nearby

but within seconds, the earth trembled, swaying and shaking our home. The deafening

crash of shattering glass and the sensation of being showered with countless shards

overwhelmed me. Panic coursed through my veins as blood started gushing out of

everywhere. I darted under my mother’s vanity, yet, in an instant, John’s protective

arms embraced me, shielding us from the chaos that had descended upon our lives.

In mere seconds, my brother’s strong hand yanked me from under the vanity, guiding

me out of our third-floor apartment. Bloodied and barefoot, I looked around the

familiar place I had called home my entire life, now an unrecognizable nightmare.

The whole apartment complex resembled a war zone. As we neared the building’s

exit, a sudden, searing pain shot through me and I let out a cry. I had inadvertently

stepped on a sharp piece of metal and my food bled profusely. John’s face revealed a

mix of concern and frustration. “Oh for fuck’s sake, let me find you some shoes” he

muttered-his last words to me.

Moments after he disappeared from my sight, another thunderous roar shattered the

air, plunging me into a suffocating cloud of dust. When I managed to open my eyes, I

was met with a horrifying sight: an entire section of our apartment block had

collapsed. John was nowhere to be seen. I clawed my way out of the wreckage,

eventually reaching the front garden of the building. A thick coat of white dust,

mingled with fresh blood from hundreds of little wounds covered my body. My ears

rang, muffling all the sounds around me and each breath seared my lungs like fire.

Desperation welled up as I strained to respond to a distant call of my name. I opened

my mouth but my voice had abandoned me. Then, a gentle hand on my face stirred

me and a familiar voice reached my ears. It was my mother, her kind face streaked

with tears. I closed my eyes and began to drift away.

Three days later, I woke up on a hospital bed. I could see my mum nestled on a chair

by my side. My arms and legs lay shrouded in bandages, my attire reduced from the

Levi’s jeans I last remembered myself wearing to a white hospital gown. In that

instant, the memories of that harrowing day flooded back, dragging with them torrents

of heart-wrenching pain. Tears welled, yet my voice remained imprisoned, incapable

of articulating the anguish building up within me. My mum, sensing my unspoken

terror, pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek. As if she had read my thoughts, she

informed me I had suffered a concussion and I had drifted in and out of consciousness

for three days. Despite the terrifying ordeal, the doctors assured us that no permanent

brain damage had been inflicted. My body was cocooned in bandages because I had

had at least a hundred stitches. Astonishingly, all wounds were predominantly

superficial, the shards of glass sparing any major arteries. The rasping pain in my

throat was a lingering effect of the dust inhaled. A sliver of glass had lightly grazed

the retina of my eye but it wouldn’t leave a scar and it wouldn’t impair my vision.

They had to cut me out of my Levi’s jeans but I was not to worry, dad had already

procured a fresh pair of Levi’s jeans for me. Amidst the ruins of our home, dad had

managed to salvage some fragments of our life possessions: my spanking new Nike

Air sneakers, my Discman, some of my CDs, a handful of clothes, and a few treasured

books. And then, in a moment of profound sorrow, my mother softly uttered the

words I had been dreading to hear: “John is dead”. I shut my eyes and even though

my mind howled with agony, no sound escaped my lips.

A week later, I was discharged from the hospital. My mum, deeply concerned about

my persistent silence, insisted on a psychiatric evaluation but the turmoil wrought by

the disaster had stretched the mental health resources of the hospital. The doctors just

advised her to give me time. We were to stay at my aunt’s house temporarily where

an entire room awaited us, cleared with love and care. My parents, valiant in their

façade of normality, resumed their daily routines and engaged in the pursuit of a new

home for the three of us. They showered me with new clothes and hid their sorrow in

my presence, acting as if the calamity that had bestowed us was a mere setback, a part

of life’s winding road. In time, they secured a new apartment across town, far from

haunting reminders of our past. I enrolled in a new school, a stranger in an unfamiliar

environment, beginning the eighth grade with the moniker “Scarface” due to the tiny

little scars that marred my face and body. Those taunts held absolutely no power over

me, for the true agony lay in me being alive while John was dead.

My parents maintained a heavy silence regarding the events, but I managed to piece

together the missing fragments of my story through hushed exchanges between my

uncle and aunt. Our towering apartment building had collapsed in the aftermath of the

earthquake. Barefoot, bloodied, and bewildered, I had mysteriously emerged in the

front garden. The disaster had claimed the lives of fifteen of our neighbours. John

had been found beneath a heavy wooden door on the second floor, clinging to life by

a thread. Extensive brain damage had rendered him brain-dead upon reaching the

hospital. In that agonizing moment, my parents displayed unimaginable courage by

choosing to donate John’s unharmed organs. His heart now beat in the chest of a

young man in northern Greece, while his kidneys granted a new lease on life to a

young woman in Italy. The prevailing assumption was that I had managed to escape

first and John had followed, only to get trapped on the second floor. No one suspected

the heart-breaking truth: he had ascended those perilous stairs to retrieve my shoes.

No one suspected that I was responsible for his death.

In our new reality, my rehabilitation became my parents’ sole focus. A parade of

specialists, from psychiatrists and neurologists to speech therapists and

ophthalmologists, became a fixture in my life. My body underwent a series of tests,

from brain scans to chest X-rays, all yielding the same conclusion: I was perfectly

healthy, save for my persistent silence. I could write, see clearly, play the piano and

read. I just wouldn’t talk. The diagnosis was “psychogenic mutism”. They attributed

this silence to a mix of PTSD and the crushing weight of grief for my departed

brother. The path to recovery involved Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, coupled with

a modest dose of Zoloft, in an attempt to restructure my thoughts and rewire my brain.

Armed with a small notebook, I communicated through writing, as my parents

decided against the Zoloft prescription. The group of psychologists overseeing my

recovery assigned ample homework, which included the task of discovering a new

hobby and documenting my daily thoughts. What thoughts could I possibly harbor? I

grappled with a solitary thought that consumed my every waking moment; the

relentless, agonizing belief that I bore responsibility for John’s tragic death.

I followed their advice, embarking on a seemingly pointless journey to silence the

tumult within my mind. Seeking solace in the local swimming pool, I discovered that

the rhythmic strokes in the cool waters offered a momentary respite from the chaos of

my thoughts. Schoolwork became my anchor and the piano my sanctuary. Managing

the daytime hours was bearable but the nights proved to be a different battleground.

Sleep continually eluded me; I kept on tossing and turning, drifting off briefly only to

awaken heaving with anxiety. Thus, I started venturing outside for long walks. Living

near the beach, I strolled along the promenade, headphones in my ears, sometimes

losing myself for hours, other times standing still and gazing upon the waves crashing

against the cliffs. One recurring thought beckoned me- the idea of taking a leap into

the icy water and surrendering to the currents. One night, in my quest to conquer my

mutism, I summoned the courage to walk to the local kiosk and request a pack of

cigarettes. Surprisingly, it worked. I found my voice.

Simultaneously, John’s presence rekindled within our home. Pictures of him adorned

our walls and graced my mother’s bedside table. Amid the rubble of our shattered

household, my father had painstakingly salvaged relics connecting us to our past:

valuable documents, clothing, books, and, most importantly, our childhood photo

albums. My parents and I would often leaf through our childhood albums, yearning

for our earliest moments to remain unblemished by the confabulatory power of

memory. I spent hours studying John’s pictures, determined not to forget a single

detail: his freckled forehead, fair eyelashes, baby blue eyes, and the dimples that

embellished his cheeks every time he smiled. Over time, I realized I couldn’t evade

John; he was everywhere, lingering in every corner of my life. Anything could trigger

his memory and unleash torrents of pain and guilt through my entire being.

Desperate for an escape, I sought an unlikely refuge in a classmate named Bill, one of

the school’s most notorious dealers. I approached him one day and politely requested

some weed, an odd plea coming from a quiet, bookish wallflower like me. He initially

looked horrified but, after a lengthy conversation trying to discourage me from

venturing into that path, he finally relented. Bill agreed to meet me after school,

provide me with some weed, and teach me how to roll joints. Being a diligent student,

I quickly became his most loyal and steadfast customer.

Despite my notable accomplishments in diverse domains - winning swimming

championships, enchanting with piano virtuosity, and upholding an outstanding

academic record- a fundamental issue persisted. Four years had transpired since

John’s passing and my insomnia persisted unyielding, impervious even to the solace

of weed. Each time I drifted into slumber, my sleep was marred by haunting

nightmares. The toll of my insomnia was evident in my emaciated appearance; I had

shed so many pounds that I looked gaunt and sickly. My complexion was drained of

life and warmth and my hair hung lifelessly. I was susceptible to colds and mysterious

aches and pains. Initially, my therapists attributed these symptoms to my body

grappling with the trauma I had endured, deeming them psychosomatic. However, as

the symptoms persisted, they referred me to a sleep specialist. Eagerly, I anticipated

my appointment, yearning for a remedy that would help me reclaim the innocence of

my childhood slumber. To my sheer disappointment, following a consultation with

my mother who insisted on avoiding any sort of medication, the specialist prescribed

nothing more than a melatonin supplement.

Seeking guidance, I turned to my trusted dealer, Bill. Without hesitation, he provided

the remedy I sought, in the form of pills: Benzos for my melancholia and Trazodone

for my insomnia. Never did we delve into the details of precise dosages or potential

interactions so I decided to trust my instincts and take a tablet of each twice a day.

The precise source of my newfound relief remained a tantalizing enigma. Was it the

Xanax, the weed, the Desyrel, the unassuming melatonin supplement, or perhaps the

extended hours at the school library and the pool? I couldn’t pinpoint it but, finally, I

slept like a baby.

I slept day and night, at home, at school, on the bus, everywhere. Yet, this newfound

rest brought along a unique set of tribulations as I found myself in a perpetual state of

dizziness and disorientation that turned even simple tasks into formidable endeavors.

Unable to combat this sense of drowsiness, I turned to Bill for advice. He handed me

a tiny pillbox filled with Adderall and suggested taking two or three tablets before

important exams. I was familiar with Adderall so I couldn’t help but smile at the

connection. When John was eleven, he had been diagnosed with ADHD and had

sampled a parade of ineffective remedies. Strattera had caused him to shed so much

weight that he had become almost translucent. Ritalin had turned him into a jittery

wreck. Adderall had brought the desired stability. I think that this history of failed

remedies was what likely contributed to my mum’s distrust of drugs. As I smiled at

the little pillbox, I thought that at least for a fleeting moment in our “lifetimes”, John

and I had shared a common bond.

While Adderall did indeed aid my concentration, it surely exacerbated my nausea. I

spent at least an hour every day at the school infirmary, battling waves of sickness and

exhaustion. My parents, suspecting something more sinister, forced me to take a

pregnancy test in their presence. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the sheer

absurdity of the idea as sex had clearly been the last thing on my mind. Even if I had

entertained such desires, there were no willing partners; I remained a solitary figure,

an outcast, teetering on the brink of paranoia. After a stint as a selective mute, I hadn’t

improved much. Interaction with classmates was a rarity and my speech was reduced

to monosyllabic utterances. My sole company appeared to be my dealer, Bill whose

motives revolved solely around financial transactions.

Therefore, the notion of pregnancy, under these circumstances, appeared highly

improbable. What I did conceal, however, was a new kind of thought that had

germinated one morning while we were analyzing Anna Karenina in class: what if

there was another way to resolve my woes? What if I could quell the dissonance

within my thoughts once and for all? My parents had been through this before; they

would manage, just as they had with John. They were still relatively young, barely in

their early forties; they could even have a new baby and start afresh. I wouldn’t create

a maelstrom, sparing them from macabre trauma. It didn’t have to resemble Anna

Karenina’s fate; I would hate to throw myself under a train. We didn’t have a gas

stove, ruling out Sylvia Plath’s method and my swimming prowess made the idea of

putting stones in my pockets and walking into the water like Virginia Woolf, equally

implausible. Lost in my thoughts, I was abruptly snapped back to reality by my

teacher persistently calling my name. Roaring laughter swept through the classroom.

At that moment, a jolt of clarity struck me, and I was overcome with panic at the stark

realization of the darkness that had clouded my mind. How could I even consider

subjecting my parents to such pain after everything they had endured? How could I

entertain the thought of suicide?

During the school break, I hurried to the library and scoured the internet for

information on “Tradozone”, “Alprazolam” and “amphetamines”. The words on the

screen danced before my eyes: “suicidal thoughts”, “fatigue”, “paranoia”, and

“nausea”. Paralyzing panic took hold of me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I

retreated to an empty bathroom and discarded the contents of my two small pillboxes

in the toilet, watching them swirl away and vanish beneath the relentless flush. I

feigned stomach problems and fled back home. There, I bid farewell to the remnants

of my weed by sending them down the toilet. I decided to hold onto the Adderall for

sentimental reasons.

Without realizing it though, I had somehow got addicted to both the Tradozone and

the Alprazolam. A few hours after flushing them down the school toilet, I was greeted

by an unwelcome surge of agitation and anxiety that kept me awake all night long.

The following day, while diligently preparing for a Latin test, my misguided attempt

to bolster focus with Adderall, triggered a terrifying ordeal. A generalized sense of

anxiety swept over me, giving rise to wild heart palpitations, an incessant headache,

and suffocating chest tightness. Convinced I was experiencing a heart attack, I was

weighing whether I should just lie in bed to await a potentially fatal coronary event or

just call an ambulance when my mum walked in the room to bring me a sandwich and

a glass of orange juice. Her gaze froze upon me. Huddled, soaked in sweat, with teeth

chattering and pallid skin, I trembled with convulsions. Witnessing her panic

deepened my distress. Following John’s death, I had vowed to shield her from further

sorrow. I had striven to be a paragon of virtue, at least on a superficial level- an

exemplary student, an outstanding athlete, and a skilled pianist. My teachers praised

my mother for how composed and polite I was. Of course, little did they know that I

had led my brother to his untimely death and that I had been dabbling in prescription

drugs to deal with the anguish. That was a burden I bore in silence.

What felt like an eternity later, I suddenly awoke to the sterile hum of fluorescent

lights. I found myself lying on a hospital gurney with a young, stern-looking doctor

examining my pupils with a flashlight. He inquired about my history with Tradozone,

Alprazolam, and amphetamines. Though I initially feigned ignorance, I could tell his

concern was genuine and alarming. The truth unfolded before me: my urine and blood

had exposed the presence of these substances, along with cannabis metabolites. What

I had experienced was not a heart attack but withdrawal syndrome. He had already

apprised my mum of the situation and she was in the psychiatrist’s office trying to

find the best course of action. Immense shame engulfed me. I thought about John.

About a year before his death, my mother had stumbled upon a joint hidden in his

sock drawer and our house had reverberated with their titanic dispute. At that time, I

had been quick to scorn John’s drug experimentation, dismissing him as a walking

cliché with his baggy trousers, piercings, dreadlocks, and joints. Lying on that

hospital gurney, emaciated and anxious, nodding in agreement to the doctor’s

admonitions about experimenting with prescription drugs, I wondered what John

might have thought of me had he been alive.

My parents neither addressed the matter with me directly nor reprimanded me but

their eyes, heavy with deep concern, spoke volumes. My prescribed regimen now

consisted of a modest Zoloft dose, fortified by a weekly Anexate injection. I was

obliged to provide weekly urine samples to demonstrate my commitment to

abstaining from any further substance experimentation. Sleep, once again, became my

major problem. Desperate for distraction, I sought refuge in diversions. Running

became a daily ritual and my sessions at the swimming pool doubled. I studied until

my eyes blurred with exhaustion and I took up German classes to keep my mind

occupied. There was no respite, no moment that didn’t evoke regret for venturing

outside the apartment barefoot, no instant free from the echo of John’s voice in my

mind. The spirit of John seemed omnipresent, haunting me at every turn. I felt as

though I was spiraling into madness. I marveled at how my parents had managed to

uphold a façade of normalcy all those years, embracing their grief with dignity and

grace. What secret strength sustained them? How did they muster the strength to wake

up in the morning, prepare breakfast, commute to work, pack nutritious lunches, and

shuttle me, their failed daughter, to doctors and extracurricular activities?

Everything changed when I crossed paths with Paul. He was a fellow early-morning

swimmer at the local sports complex. His striking appearance, tall and willowy with a

body adorned in tattoos, piqued my curiosity. A prominent scar, winding down his

flank and around his abdomen, added an air of mystery to his allure. The deep desire

to approach him, speak to him, and run my hand through his hair stirred within me.

One day, as I hoisted myself out of the pool, he talked to me. I felt deeply ashamed

and exposed as I looked unhealthy inside and out, my old scars and sharp bones laid

bare for all to see. Paul suggested grabbing breakfast together at the sports complex

canteen. Once again, I found myself unable to utter a word so I nodded. Yet, his warm

smile and the cheerful way he said “Alright, I’ll see you at the canteen in 10

minutes!” filled me with a glimmer of hope.

Paul breathed new life into my desolate world. He was an architecture student with a

passion for post-punk music, clubs and art galleries. My hesitant decision to take this

unexpected journey into romantic relationships filled my parents with immense

elation. Paul bore his past with unwavering honesty. After a few weeks of dating, he

confided in me about his own battle with a devastating motorcycle accident in his late

teens. It had landed him in the ICU with a destroyed kidney, a ruptured spleen, a few

slipped discs and a shattered pelvis. Tragically, his best friend, his companion that

day, had not survived. This ordeal, combined with multiple surgeries, had led him

down a path of addiction to pain medication. I didn’t dare to probe further into that

painful chapter of his life. It was during this exchange of intimate revelations that I

chose to unveil a part of my own story, telling him about the earthquake that had

decimated my home and claimed my brother’s life. However, I carefully omitted the

fact that my brother would have most likely still been alive had I remembered to put

my shoes on. I also decided to withhold my embarrassing stint in addiction. By this

point, Paul should have sensed that something had been amiss with me but I was

determined to shield him from the complete depth of my personal catastrophe.

Paul became my anchor, my lifeline. In his presence, I reclaimed my voice and

rediscovered my smile. No longer did I swim frenetically to escape my thoughts of

John; instead, I savored the soothing embrace of the water against my skin as I

languidly glided through the pool. I rediscovered the joy of playing the piano, with the

keys eagerly awaiting the touch of my fingers. It was as if I had been in a state of

hibernation for a substantial part of my life and I was awakening anew.

Over time, I couldn’t help but sense that my overwhelming reliance on Paul was

taking a toll on him, even though he tried valiantly to mask it. I knew deep inside that

I wasn’t miraculously healed; I had merely shifted my focus from tasks and pills to

Paul. My self-absorption, combined with my focus on my own healing journey,

blinded me to the fact that Paul was also fighting his own demons. I had somehow

underestimated the extent of his struggle with addiction. He was candid about his

experiences and I had heard about his meetings, his mentor, and his visits to an

outpatient clinic. Nevertheless, he appeared to be in control of everything so I never

dared to pry into the specifics of the painkillers he had been addicted to or the

problems he faced. I thought I was being discreet, but in reality, I was reluctant to let

anything mar the newfound happiness that Paul had brought into my life.

Therefore, when Paul, looking profoundly disheartened, announced his need to check

himself into a rehabilitation facility for a while, the shock hit me like a tidal wave. My

reaction was one of sheer horror. In reality, I had become so consumed by my own

fears of life without Paul that my focus had shifted away from his well-being and

safety. I realized I had been totally unsupportive of his journey towards health and

sobriety by persistently making myself the centre of attention. The agony in Paul’s

eyes was unmistakable as he bore witness to my paranoid reaction. Ultimately, he

decided to grant the outpatient clinic another chance and I agreed. I struggled to

recognize the person I had become.

Later that week, Paul’s mentor, Mr Thomas reached out to me, and we arranged to

meet at a local café. Seated across from me at the café, Mr Thomas wasted no time.

He forthrightly explained that Paul had been grappling with a three-year addiction to

painkillers, stemming from a serious injury, multiple operations, and, obviously,

psychological trauma. I mustered the courage to enquire about the specific type of

painkillers, secretly hoping for something as innocuous as paracetamol or ibuprofen.

Mr Thomas responded matter-of-factly, listing “Vicodin, Demerol, and Dilaudid” as

the substances Paul had been addicted to. I had never heard of them. He went on to

explain that they were brand names for hydrocodone, pethidine, and hydromorphone-

substances classified as opioids. I was mortified. In my sheltered, privileged, and

rather childish perspective, opioid addiction had always been synonymous with

“heroin addiction”, a struggle I associated with my favorite rock stars, or tormented

individuals living on the fringes of society. I couldn’t fathom how someone like Paul

could be addicted to opioids. Mr Thomas had little patience for my narrow-minded

assumptions and proceeded to clarify that during his recovery journey, Paul had been

advised against forming personal relationships, especially with someone carrying their

own emotional baggage. Frustration welled up within me. Unable to hold back my

tears, I asserted that I could empathize with Paul because I, too, battled grief,

depression, suicide ideation, and a minor prescription drug addiction. Mr Thomas’s

face softened and he placed his rough hands on my trembling bony hands in a fatherly

manner. “That’s what I’m talking about.” he said gently “You have to confront your

own turmoil, your survivor’s guilt, your grief, your addiction, your pain and let Paul

address his own.”

Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been incredibly selfish and self-

absorbed, clinging to my pre-adolescent mindset where I believed I was the center of

the universe. Drowning in my own suffering, I had failed to grasp that those around

me also bore their own burdens and pain. Fueled by sorrow and obsession with the

circumstances surrounding John’s death, I had driven away those who genuinely

wished to help me. I had depleted their energy and goodwill at my convenience.

Above all, I had gravely taken for granted my parents’ unwavering efforts to assist

me. From arranging doctors and offering unconditional love to funding my piano

lessons and swimming pool sessions as well as providing material comforts- they had

offered me everything generously, despite grappling with their own anguish and grief.

They had already lost one child and they were desperately struggling to keep me

afloat. Yet, I had been dismissive of their pain. Each day they would rise, push

forward, work hard, and conceal their suffering to keep me warm, fed, clothed,

educated, occupied, and taken care of. Meanwhile, I wallowed in my own despair,

shedding tears, starving myself, and squandering the opportunities they provided for

my healing.

A profound sense of nausea washed over me. I yearned to return home and hug my

mother. I wanted to call Paul and offer a sincere apology for my lack of empathy and

foresight. Overwhelming guilt enveloped me, yet this guilt differed from the one I had

experienced following John’s death. John was gone, and nothing would ever change

that. However, this fresh sense of regret I was experiencing held the potential for

change- it could change me, it could change my relationship with my parents, and it

could liberate Paul. No one else had to die. I had to find something meaningful to do

with my human life, a purpose that would bring about positive change. I looked up at

Mr. Thomas, tears streaming down my face. Without hesitation, I finished my coffee

and extended my hand. Paul was now free, and so was I.