Origins: The Fire
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
I
n the back of my head, a voice urges me to wake up. I fight it off and snuggle deeper under my cozy down comforter. This dream is too wonderful. I’m floating in the ocean without trying, without paddling, just drifting and basking in the heat of the sun that beats down on my skin. A seagull cries overhead, diving so low I can almost touch it. Everything feels peaceful, and even though I can’t see my parents, I sense their presence nearby, twirling in the sand.
Funny. I can’t imagine a single scenario in the world that would involve my two-left-footed Mom dancing in public.
But I know, even as they dance, that they are watching me closely. Just like always.
“You know, my life makes a really lame documentary.” I utter our usual joke while refusing to open my eyes. Over
the crackle of the waves, I hear Dad’s rumbling laugh but tune out Mom’s heartfelt sigh.
The ocean roars as it embraces my limbs, which are strangely heavy, but in a perfect, lazy way.
Not only is the sun hot, but the water…the water is so blissfully warm.
Warm, even inside my lungs. Only the air holds a bitter taste. The more I float, the more I feel it slowly, slowly smothering me like a thick blanket.
Bitter. Acrid. Hot.
Smothering…
With a gasp, I open my eyes.
No dancing bodies. No warm ocean.
Just darkness at first. Then, as my eyes adjust, a strange, murky haze, floating like wisps of fog within the dim glow that seeps through my window. I shake my head, trying to clear the remnants of the dream from my mind. Fog? But my window is closed. I can still hear the loud, constant whoosh of ocean in the distance. But that doesn’t make any sense.
My gaze moves from my window to my door, and my lungs seize. Instead of the darkness I anticipate, the door is outlined with a thin, orange glow. A glow that flickers.
Not fog. Smoke.
Not the roar of the ocean. Fire.
Fire.
I throw back the covers and spring to my feet. “Mom? Dad?” I land on one of my discarded ballet flats, stumble, and smack into my bedside table. A rectangular object thuds to the floor.
My alarm clock, green numbers flashing 10:42. I open my mouth to shout for Dad again, then stop short. 10:42, 10:42. They aren’t home yet.
It’s the first time I remember being thankful for one of their long work dinners.
But it also means… I’m on my own. I have to get out on my own.
With that thought spurring me on, I shove my shoes onto my feet and race for the door, reaching for the handle—
Hot.
I yelp and pop my fingers into my mouth. The fire must be right outside.
No escape that way. And no way to call for help, I realize as I picture my cell phone where I left it charging on the hallway bathroom counter. No, the window is my only option. I back away, my heart pumping much too fast, my breaths coming even faster. The smoke sears down my throat, hot and foul.
Three times as many people die from smoke inhalation as from burns, and most only have three minutes to get out once the smoke alarm goes off.
I half laugh, half sob as the facts from the last documentary
I watched with my parents surface. I guess their weekly geekery of dragging me in front of the Discovery Channel, cozy in our Gumby Snuggies with a bowl of popcorn to share, has finally paid off.
Around me, the smoke glows white like a creeping mist.
Three minutes.
Smoke alarm…
My frantic gaze finds the unit on the ceiling in the center of my room. Nothing. Not even a red light. The batteries must be dead. But how is that even possible? Mom changes them like clockwork, every six months.
I cough my way to the window, past the white shelves that hold all my favorite books. My old horseback-riding photos, my baseball mitt—autographed by Dad’s favorite Phillies pitcher.
I ignore the leather glove and latch onto a picture instead. A family photo of Mom, Dad, and me—taken at the beach. My favorite. Mom’s hair is windswept and her smile is bright, and Dad’s hand rests on my shoulder, which is still brown with the evidence of our sand fight. I reach the window and fumble until I unlatch the lock. The photo gets shoved into the waistband of my pajama pants before I straddle the sill and slide down onto the tiny balcony.
Fresh air and darkness rush to greet me—so cold, my already irritated lungs spasm in protest. I double over, hacking. As I fight to regain my breath, the frantic rhythm
beneath my ribs calms a little. I’m outside. All I have to do is grab onto that branch overhead, shinny down the tree, and I’ll be free.
Nothing stirs on the street below, and the houses across the way are quiet, lit only by porch lights and an occasional upstairs window. Clearly, no one is aware of the fire yet. As much as Dad annoys the neighbors by allowing the contents of our garage to spill into the driveway like a never-ending rummage sale, none of them are mean enough to turn their backs while those same belongings burn to the ground. No, all I have to do is get down and bang on the Rogerses’ door until they let me use the phone.
I step up onto the bottom rung of the wrought-iron fence that outlines the balcony. But as I reach for the thick, leglike branch of the tree, my gaze snags on something. My hand slips from the limb, and crumpled brown leaves rain down like charred snowflakes. I freeze, a tight band squeezing my heart.
No
.
Backlit by a full moon, my parents’ silver Volvo gleams in the driveway.
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.
The air around me fragments into black and orange particles.
I cover my eyes, feeling simultaneous burning on my left calf, my hand, my arm. I roll against the carpet in an attempt to smother any remaining embers.
I stand just as I hear my father’s stifled scream. Sweat that has nothing to do with the fire beads across my body. Flames crackle in front of me—a writhing orange mass, rearing up from the fallen beam, while behind me the wall of fire steadily flickers my way.
No way forward, no way back. Besides, Mom and Dad need my help.
Without giving myself time to think, I turn and race forward. The flaming banister sears my hand, and I can smell the acrid stench of my burning hair, where the flames grab at a few drying strands. My hand erupts into a blaze of agony, so intense that nausea twists my gut, rolls up my throat. But I don’t stop. I vault over the banister and through the orange wall—a solid mass of scorching heat; so hot, I’m sure my skin is melting from my bones. I close my eyes…before plunging into nothingness.
My stomach dives into my feet as I free-fall into space.
Like on one of those roller coaster rides, only knowing there is no safe landing at the end. Smoke, flames, everything is a blur.
Please, please, please
is all I have time to think before I crash hard.
