On the day the tower fell, I was about to enter the subway tunnels to head home, to my apartment in the heart of Chicago. When I heard a bone-chilling scream. It was filled with anguish and despair. That scream pierced my heart, forever changing me. It died away, and a stiff silence fell over the street. A choked gasp escaped me, as I whirled around and saw this woman kneeling in the street, begging for God to take her instead. She collapsed on the ground, heaving sobs shaking her body. An announcement came over the loudspeakers at the nearby mall, alerting the passerbyers that over 2,000 civilians had been murdered in a series of plane crashes. It began to rattle off names of the fallen. Another voice, this one of a man, let out a gutteral roar, as he smashed a window in his fury. Tears were streaming down his face. One by one, people sank to the ground, utterely defeated. A young man, probably just out of college, was next to me.