Autumn Fires

CW: Blood

The crisp autumn air stung the back of her throat as she rode her bike down the hill out of her neighborhood. Her wardrobe was ill-prepared for a climate like this, so she made do with a long pair of leggings and a thick sweatshirt. She pedaled and pedaled and pedaled, thinking of warm things to trick her body into making the trip to class.

Warm things.

Butter on a stovetop.

Sheets fresh from the dryer.

A fall-scented candle.

Logs in a fireplace.

Smoke coming from a chimney.

Smoke.

Smoke?

Her nose was burning with the intense and distinct smell of smoke.

Her feet dragged along the pavement and pulled her and her bike to a bumpy stop. She searched frantically for the source of the stench. Once unsuccessful, she pedaled a bit further down her street. 

Warmer.

Warmer.

She was getting warmer.

She was getting hot.

She approached the house at the end of the street. She had never been there before, she didn’t even know if anyone lived there. It was two stories tall and towered over every other home in the neighborhood. White picket fence, brown shingles, beige shudders. 

It was engulfed in flames.

Black picket fence. Black shingles. Black shudders.

She spent so long staring that she forgot she was riding a bike. She swerved away from the fire and toppled onto the pavement. Her shoulder took the brunt of the fall—there would be a hole in her sweatshirt, no doubt—and she bit the inside of her cheek.

Her blood was hot.

She stood, pushing her bike away from her.

She swore she heard ringing in her ears.

An ambulance, a fire truck, and a squad car paraded down her street from the main road—a cacophony of ringing to add to the one in her head.

As the firefighters, paramedics, and policemen swarmed the fire, she couldn’t help but feel that she was in the wrong place. What was she doing standing there? Would the officers think that she started the fire? Why wasn’t she trying to help?

Despite her racing thoughts, she still stood and stared, her bike long forgotten at her feet.

“Hey, miss.”

She jumped. Someone could see her?

“Is this your house?”

It was a police officer. She shook her head.

“Then you should probably move along.”

She nodded and knelt to pick up her bike, her eyes still transfixed on the fire.

“We’ve got it all under control, ma’am. Move along.”

She got on her bike and started pedaling, the crisp autumn air biting her shoulder through the hole in her sweatshirt. The blood in her mouth grew cold. She swallowed it.

As she pedaled out of the neighborhood, she kept looking over her shoulder at the billowing smoke swirling into the sky, warming the cold, hard weather surrounding her. Because she was looking over her shoulder so intently, she didn’t see the old, unusually deep pothole that she was so used to in the middle of her street. 

When she hit the pothole, her bike jolted and threw her off balance, causing her to fall once again.

At least it’s my other shoulder, she thought, immediately realizing that now there would be two holes in her sweatshirt.

She rolled over to lay on her back, wriggling out of the grip of her bike. She couldn’t bring herself to sit up. She would already be late for class—she could hear the 8 a.m. bell ring as she lay in the street. Or maybe that was still in her head. It was hard to tell.

She could feel blood once again seeping out of the bite mark on the inside of her cheek. She meant to swallow it while it was hot this time, but it went down the wrong pipe. She rolled over on her side, coughing and sputtering, feeling the cold, rough pavement press against her shoulder through the newest hole in her sweatshirt. She watched as the same blood she meant to ingest spewed out of her like she was an unshaken bottle of ketchup. The sight of it made her want to vomit, which she promptly rolled over to her other shoulder and did. She let her eyes drift shut to avoid vomiting again.

She looked dead, she was sure of it—ripped sweater, surrounded on either side by blood and upchuck. If someone saw her like this they wouldn’t even check for a pulse, they would just call the funeral home to come to scoop her up and put her in a hearse.

“Oh my God.”

Her eyes shot open, hearing the sound of footsteps and the low hum of a car engine in her ear. She didn’t dare move. Someone could see her?

“Are you okay?”

A young woman was standing over her. How long ago had it started raining?

“Uh…” She groaned, trying to wiggle her fingers to see if her body would move.

“Are you okay?” The woman repeated. She could barely hear her over the rumbling of a car engine just inches away from her head. She pressed her ear tighter against the pavement, feeling the vibrations reverberate through her chest. She started coughing again. “Do you need help?”

“Uh…” She pushed herself onto her back. “No.” 

“Oh… Okay. Are you sure?”

She did something akin to nodding her head.

“Okay. Um… I hate to ask, but would you mind moving out of the street, then? My house is on fire.”

Oh.

Oh.

She rolled over onto her side to push herself up, placing her hand unceremoniously into her own vomit. She had to focus on not adding to the puddle. When she was sitting, she looked around for her bike.

“It’s over here,” the woman said. 

She turned to look at the woman and saw she was holding her bike upright. She quickly stood, willing herself not to fall over. She walked as if she was taking a sobriety test over to the woman and put two unsteady hands on the handlebars.

“Thank you.”

The woman gave her a tight smile, then walked quickly back to her car. As the woman put her car in gear, she wheeled her bike to the ditch on the side of the road. The woman drove over the blood and vomit, leaving tire tracks of it behind her as she drove to her burning house. She watched as her car disappeared over the hill into the neighborhood. 

It was entirely too cold to bike to class.