Sacrifice For Survival

The rotor wash from the FEMA helicopter was a physical blow, a deafening symphony of survival above the screams of a collapsing Los Angeles. My team was clambering aboard, but Matthew, my boyfriend, blocked the doorway, pistol raised. "We are not leaving without Molly," he declared, his desperate resolve sealing our fate. In my first life, I made the call: I tranquilized him, dragged him onto the chopper, and left Molly to the Shakers below. I told myself it was for the greater good, a pragmatism that propelled me to rise through the ranks in the Green Zone. Years later, Matthew found me. He never forgave me for abandoning Molly. He drugged me, dragged my numb body to the perimeter wall, and pushed me over a sheer drop into the Shaker-infested darkness, his last words chilling my soul: "Molly deserved to live." The fall was terrifying, the impact final. Then, I blinked. The rotor wash was a physical blow. The screams were deafening. Matthew stood before me, pistol in hand: "We are not leaving without Molly." I was back, on that same rooftop, on the day of evacuation. This time, I knew everything. And this time, the choice would be very different.