Eleventh Grade Burns(53)



It was a losing battle.

He closed his hand over the small, silver knob. At the same moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw his hand, his ten-year-old hand, closing over the same knob. Together, both hands swung the door open. Both hearts beat out of control at the smell of ash and soot.

Shaking his head, trying hard to remain in the present, Vlad stepped over the threshold. His younger self stepped inside too, and turned as he did to face the bed.

“Mom! Dad! NO!”

Vlad closed his eyes, blocking out his younger self’s voice.

No, Vlad. Don’t go down that path. Stay in the present.

But when he opened his eyes again, all he could see was his younger self’s point of view. It was strange, as if he was watching a movie. Occasionally the real world, the present world, would leak in and he’d see what he was really faced with, but mostly, he relived that day, moment for moment.

Instead of dust and cobwebs lying atop the soot and ashes, the ashes were fresh, some embers still glowing brightly. Instead of the quiet of a haunted, forgotten place, the sounds of sirens and voices filled his head. The room was filled with smoke, still overwhelmed by a heat that Vlad could barely stand to be near, but he had to see, he had to know. His chest rose and fell both from the run from school and from what he was seeing.

On the bed were two figures. Figures that had once been people. Figures that had just kissed him good night not ten hours before. All that remained were black, sooty shapes. All that Vlad could identify was an arm and what might have been an open mouth. He reached out, his fingers making contact...

Vlad jerked out of the memory, streams of tears coating his cheeks. He didn’t want to remember, didn’t need to remember. He’d come here looking for evidence, not pain. That he had an abundance of.

He looked around the room, his eyes searching for something, anything that might offer a clue as to what had happened. But when his eyes fell on the bed again ...

He reached out, his fingers making contact with the ashen form closest to him. It was his mother. It had to be. That was exactly where she’d been lying when he’d turned off her alarm. As his fingers brushed against her, her body—her burned, fragile remains—crumbled into a pile. Vlad screamed.

He closed his eyes again, willing away that memory with deep, shaking breaths. The tears were coming too easily now. He brushed them away with his arm, but his efforts were useless. Determined, he opened his eyes again and focused on the present.

At first, he saw only dirt and dust over more dirt and dust. Then his eyes settled on a spot on the wall, near his father’s nightstand. There the soot was smudged, as if someone had wiped it away. Vlad moved around the bed to get a closer look. He knelt and leaned forward, taking a good, long look at the glyph on the small panel there.

He’d never noticed it before. But then, he’d never spent much time in this room since the fire.

He reached up slowly, the glyph glowing at his close proximity, and touched it. The panel opened inward. When he peered inside, he saw nothing.

Another dead end.

Vlad cursed under his breath, but then bit his bottom lip and placed his hand inside the compartment. He felt all along each wall, then reached up and felt carefully along the top.

Nothing. The compartment was completely empty.

Vlad’s shoulders sank.

As he pulled his hand out, his finger stung. He yanked it back, fearing a spider bite. Blood bubbled from the tip of his finger. A paper cut. Vlad sucked the blood away and reached back in with his other hand. Carefully, he moved it across the top of the compartment. With the tips of his fingers, he touched the corner of a slip of paper, wedged into a seam. It took him several tries, but finally, he withdrew the paper and sat back on his heels, holding it curiously in his palm.

He unfolded it and there, in his father’s handwriting, was “Aidan” and a phone number.

It was probably nothing, probably meaningless, but Vlad tucked it carefully into his pocket and stood, looking around the room some more.

As he was going over the bureau’s top drawers—or rather, what remained of them—Vikas’s voice broke in from behind him. “What are you looking for, Mahlyenki Dyavol?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Answers. I want to know what happened to them. I want to know who did it. And I want to know why.”

Vikas stepped closer, placing a caring hand on Vlad’s shoulder. “What answers can you possibly find in the cold ashes, Vladimir? The men who did this must have had their reasons for doing so, but they’ve left nothing behind. Only bad memories.”

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