-Claire’s P.O.V.-
A vision of white remains imprinted into my eyelids even minutes after the explosion.
It’s a welcome contrast from the collapsing ceiling above me: dark and fragmented.
There is an added pressure in my abdomen, but it doesn’t feel sharp, so it means I am not impaled at least.
What I am, though, is trapped.
Willow seemed overly fond of games of chance, and this explosion had been a good one. The chance to come out unscathed, and the chance for the entire building to come crashing down on you.
Seems as if my luck had chosen for the latter.
Fitting, I would think, given how my day had been going thus far.
My logic tells me that, if I yelled, someone would likely hear me and get me out of here. It also claims I could lift the piece of rubble myself if I tried hard e
