Five things I can see: 

An abandoned shoe lying on its side left behind in haste. Broken glass sparkling in the carpet, disrupting the lines a vacuum had left. The green glow of an exit sign distant down the hall. A crimson pool beneath me, I don’t think the blood is my own. A man lying very, very, still his hands outstretched in front of him, reaching for something I can’t see.

Four things I can hear: 

Screams from the young and old alike, joining In song, the wails of sirens make the base, my heart hammers like a drum, the ringing heard in my ears create a harmony. 

Three things I can feel: 

A dull pulsing pain in my head, the weight of another person pressing down onto me, the tacky, wet texture of the carpet beneath my hands.

Two things I can smell:

The metallic stench of blood, faint whispers of smoke sneaking under the door. 

One thing I can taste:

Salt on my lips from the tear tracks that trace my face.