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[The following is a fictional representation of the helplessness I felt at the time of the bombing of the Boston Marathon. Another coping method is donating to one of the following relief organizations found here.]
Two men stood perched on the rooftop ledge of Boston Public Library on the warm afternoon of April 15, 2013. Marathon runners had been crossing the finish line in singles, pairs and groups of all sizes for the last couple of hours. The men looked down on the peaceful and celebratory atmosphere of Boylston Street.
"Another minute or so," said one of them. He was wearing a sleek black two-piece suit with a black button-down shirt and a skinny black tie. Black shoes, belt and sunglasses completed his ensemble. Even his hair was a slicked up coal-black. If it weren't for his relatively pale complexion, the man could have been made entirely out of shadow. His brother was just as pale, but his gray eyes, white-blonde hair and all-white tunic, belt, pants and sandals set him apart rather dramatically.
"I absolutely hate this part," the brighter brother remarked. An explosion rocked the street below them, followed by the briefest of inhaled breaths before the screaming started. A second explosion ten seconds later sent waves of chaos smoking up and down Boylston. The shadow brother took a seat on the ledge.
"And now, we wait."
