Everything went dark, a ringing in my head, I fell to the floor

Amstor was a pretty popular place — lots of people. Around 400 employees alone, all the shops were open. The parking lot wasn’t as empty as it appears on the video after the explosion — cars just started driving away immediately.

Everyone responds to air raid alerts differently. At Amstor, the staff tried to go outside, although of course not everyone did — it was hot outside and people didn’t feel like running back and forth. During alerts, customers would often ask the girls to make them coffee… I’m told one of them is now in the hospital.

Every time there was an alert and my colleagues didn’t want to go out, I’d say: “Imagine — one day we’ll step out and it will save our lives.” That phrase was very motivating, and we’d all go out.

Yesterday I came to work a bit earlier than usual. Got myself a nice coffee, walked into the office, put on a new lab coat. The first alert sounded. I always try to go out. The store administrator and I waited out the alert and went back to work.

I had a client in for a diagnostic session. After her came the next one: a pregnant woman with a small child in a stroller, and her husband. I didn’t want to do the second session during an alert, but it turned out that way — everyone insisted, and we were all in the office.

I remember the moment of the explosion. It was a bright flash — for a split second I thought it was an electrical surge, our lights seemed to get brighter. Then everything suddenly went dark, a powerful ringing in my head, and I fell to the floor against the drywall partition. There were glass display cases all around — it was terrifying that the shards would fly at us.

The ceiling came down on us — lamps, the ventilation system, air conditioners — everything that had been above us. I screamed at the girls to get on the floor; they were in such shock that they only heard me on about the tenth try. Everything was covered in dust and smoke, and it was very dark.

I don’t know how long it took us to come to our senses. There was nothing to breathe. The store was buried under debris. I turned on the flashlight on my phone and we started moving toward the exit, trying to step over the glass and everything underfoot.

Someone was shouting loudly: “Natasha, Natasha!” We didn’t know who was calling for whom. I asked the girls if any of them was Natasha. We got up and followed the voice. It turned out to be the administrator calling for me — he couldn’t reach our office.

The pregnant girl slipped and fell onto the glass and chunks of ceiling, cutting her legs. The rest got out without injuries. I can’t remember whether I saw the other woman — I hope she was walking ahead of us.

At the door stood the stroller, and it was terrifying to look inside — it was covered in shards and dust.

I saw that it was empty. On our way out of the store, we ran into a shell-shocked security guard who, when asked “Where’s the exit?” — only on the fourth attempt managed to pull himself together and answer. We ran to the emergency exit.

After that, things were relatively normal — mostly glass and water, about 4 centimeters of water. I don’t know how much time passed before we got out. We’d inhaled a lot of dust and smoke — I can still smell it.

When I stepped outside, there was a lot of smoke. Lots of people — running, screaming. Those who had just gotten out were coughing. I was in shock. The main thing was that I saw the little child who had been with us, in his father’s arms. That was a relief.

I told our administrator that I needed to go back. Maybe someone needed my help — I’m a nurse by training. He grabbed my arm and said that the rescue teams and ambulances had already arrived, they’d handle it.

I still haven’t fully processed everything — I feel very empty emotionally. Yesterday it was adrenaline and shock; today the realization is setting in. All that’s left of my workplace is a lab coat — everything else burned.