Origins: The Fire (MILA 2.0, #0.5)(2)

They’re home. Inside. Possibly asleep and totally unaware.

Smoke inhalation…

Three minutes…

I can’t cross the street to the neighbors’. By the time a fire truck arrives, it will be too late.

I have to get them out. Now.



I whirl to face the roof and follow the slanted eave with my eyes. Up. I have to go up. Fire always goes upward in search of oxygen, so if it’s already outside my door, then it’s probably raging downstairs. No, my best bet is climbing around to the hallway window on the side of the house and praying the fire isn’t there yet.

I reach for the eave with one hand and curl my other around the iron ball that decorates the top of the balcony fence. The roof is slick with moisture, making it hard to hold. I steady myself, then pull the foot closest to the window to the top.

One, two, three… I release my lower hand and grab for the roof. My fingers skim the edge just as my free foot searches for the top of the fence.

Slam! My bare ankle hits wrought iron. The unexpected jolt shakes me, and my fingers slip. My entire body pitches backward, and I’m falling.

Stars blur across the night sky as my head rushes back, as my fingernails skid to the very edge.

With a last, desperate push on my stable foot, I surge upward. My nails scrabble for purchase. My free foot dangles wildly in the air for a gut-wrenching instant before finally finding the top of the bar. To the frantic drumbeat of my pulse, I pull myself upward tile by tile until I get one knee up. The other knee follows, and then I’m on the roof.

The slanted angle is steep, which makes crawling awkward. I glance at the ground below but quickly retrain my eyes forward with a hard swallow. No falling. On the slippery roof, the distance over to the hall window feels infinite. Almost there, almost there, I chant, pushing my fear-stiffened limbs forward.

Finally, I round the corner. When I reach the hall window, there’s no balcony. Just a tiny sliver of tile underneath. I keep my eyes off the long drop to the ornamental iron spikes that enclose the brick patio below and edge my way onto the narrow patch of tile. Using one hand to keep my balance, I use the other to yank at the window.

It won’t budge.

With a deep breath for courage, I grab the overhang with both hands, gather my strength, and kick with all my might. Glass shatters inward with a sharp tinkling. I reach in and unlock the window, careful to avoid the jagged edges.

I’m finally back inside.

Smoke furls in big, gray plumes. The heat bites at my throat again, so I pull my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose. The smoke is thick, but to my left I see the glimmer of orange flames peeking through the black cloud surrounding the doorway to my room.

I shudder and turn away, wading through the smoke. I stumble-drag my way toward my parents’ room. Through the haze inside the doorway, I can just make out their bed.

The covers are rumpled and lumpy. Like two bodies are sleeping there.

The bed is still. Too late is my first thought, the one that almost brings me to my knees. I’m too late.

“No,” I sob, stumbling closer. The haze clears, just a little, and through my dampening eyes I see what I missed before.

The bed is empty.

I look to the right, on the floor near Dad’s bedside table, where he tosses his dirty clothes every night.

Bare. No sports jacket, no pants. Not even a dress shoe.

No, the only article of clothing is draped across the back of his chair, where he always keeps it. His lucky Phillies jersey.

My legs shake. They’re okay. They aren’t here.

I turn to escape out their sliding glass door when a noise catches my attention. I freeze, strain to hear. No. Surely not…

“…ah!” This time the voice is unmistakable, even if the word is garbled.

Dad’s voice. Coming from downstairs.

I sway like I’ve been sucker punched. My parents are inside the house.

“Dad!” I try to scream, but heat clutches at my throat, constricting my vocal cords and making the word emerge in a faint, wheezing whisper. “Mom!” I try again as I run back to the door—but the sound is swallowed by the roar of the flames.

My hand flies in front of my face, a useless shield from the heat. The fire advances down the hall hungrily. It’s spread with unbelievable speed, like an insatiable beast, one that will only be happy once everything is destroyed.

That path is gone, but I have to get downstairs. I have to.

Shoving the door closed, I flee for my parents’ bathroom. I head straight for the shower and race inside. I flip the faucet on full blast and allow the water to drench my entire body, gasping as the cold pelts my skin.

A few seconds, that’s all I can risk. Once I’m soaking wet, I dampen a shirt I pick up off the floor and tie it around my nose and mouth. In their mirror, my eyes are wide and red streaked above the white fabric, my hair plastered to my head. Water drips down my forehead. Hopefully, the water will be enough to protect me.

BOOM! I jump at the explosion in the distance. What was that? Part of the house, collapsing? An image of my mom’s face flashes to mind, bleeding, unconscious, buried under rubble and a sea of flames.

I bolt for the door, which connects down the hall, on the other side of my parents’ door. Good thing it’s closest to the far set of stairs, because already the fire is rushing into my parents’ bedroom in a huge orange wall.

I run with my eyes watering from the smoke. So hot, it’s so hot. When I reach the top of the stairs, there’s a terrible crunch overhead. I look up…in time to see a chunk of the flaming beams in the ceiling separate from the rest. The fiery wood plummets right for my head. I dive, the temperature skyrockets, and then a loud crash fills my ears.