I am a forest fire

It resounded like elephants marching outside her room with a dense smell of materials recklessly thrown together to declare importance to themselves, and she awakes with a shrill to inform any intruder that she’s aware of their presence. But, it would’ve been a dream if someone had entered their home. No, this was far worse than she imagined could happen as her mother rushed through black clouds into her room, urging her to hurry outside.

The birds hadn’t begun their morning songs as glass sliced their hands to circulate more air through the room. The darkness plastered against the walls accentuates the monstrous cackle like wild dogs circling innocent prey beneath the howl of the alarm. 

‘Faster,’ her father ordered.

Her mind shortened to a singular actioned routine: bucket, water, bucket, water, bucket, water—it was helpless! She swore under her breath. She groaned and spewed against her mother as her blood boiled shakingly to why help hadn’t come, why no one heard her cries or her lungs pleading for a clean source of oxygen. Her heart shattered as the ceiling crumbled before her. The red claws leaped higher, scraping their nails through the holes in the roof to escape and embrace the remaining foundation. She wails for mercy, her body growing weak. Where was the kindness? Where was the care promised? 

Her words tasted metallic on her tongue, and her prayer to awaken from the nightmare went unanswered. She looked to the sky, asking where He was.

Eila believes she would follow the exact order in which grief is processed. At least, she hoped she would because, in some twisted way, it promised a haven for her to fall apart. She has read many articles and research papers about the infamous five stages one goes through when experiencing the most unpredictable feeling. And she’s confident she felt each stage shortly as she fought the fire for nothing. But, as she observes her state of being, she feels she shifted them from their rightful places as if her mind shook the bag before emptying it on the table. Denial served no purpose of averting her attention away from her reality—how can it? How can Eila repudiate the painted memory when remnants of soot stain her fingernails or how the smokey scent deepens along the strands of her hair after every wash? How can she forget when her skin burns from remembering the manic dance within the flame’s arms or when her limbs mourn the scars healing from time passing? 

Every night has been the same as tonight, bathing her in a cold sweat, her heart galloping, her eyes teary, and her fingers scratching and imprinting her palms in any way to shake the nauseating feeling off. She whimpers for sleep to serenade her terrors, to lessen the weight on her chest, and to spare her from heaving and stirring the tranquility. 

With another hour of her mind refusing to still itself, Eila ventures to the small garden at the back of the Guest House and sits on a patch of grass. She reminisces about her childhood evenings of lying on the side of the roof of their house, her head resting atop a pillow with her blankie and teddy bear in hand, as her dearest friend wraps her in a snow-white blanket. She thinks back to how the moon hummed tenderly as she shed herself, allowing her soul to express itself along the stars and for her heart to rest as she’s finally understood. 

Eila clasps her hands together, the tremors subtle against her lips as she displays all of what she’ll give for a moment to rewrite her past or for her to have a chance to go back in time and awaken herself before destruction unfolds. But, with each prayer unanswered, like when she watched orange lines of dying ember succumb to the last of her home, her attempts at holding unraveling threads of hope suffered the same fate.

The further Eila drifts into the void of delicate narratives, slicing ruthless words like a viper’s tongue, the further her anger roots itself and leaves behind boulders to anchor the feeling of inequity. It projects itself onto the tiniest speckles of existence. Eila’s furious with car drivers and cashiers and scowls while passing people or when a slight detail angles itself differently from the routine she grapples with for dear life—for some sense of normalcy because God forbid, she can’t comprehend what’s around her. 

Something drops like a dead weight inside her. The heaviness drags her body to tense while a veil drapes snugly, suffocating and compressing her to a crooked silhouette. She gasps from the familiar burn sizzling deep in her core. Though she recognizes the signs of her frustration creeping closer to incarnate itself into something more substantial, she’s unacquainted with the ferocity. Eila absorbs her hatred for others and turns to herself because, as much as she knows no one is to blame, her thoughts are enraged, ceasing at nothing before finding answers to bring justice to her pain. She wants to peel her skin to relieve the needling warmth pressing from underneath her skin, gnawing at the back of her head for allowing it to spread so widely and scorch the physicality of her love and passion—her writings turned to ash and forgotten along with the rest of her memories. She grinds her teeth at the garbled possibilities, stepping to light and acting their scenes like theatre kids, lining pictures and dialogues of what she could’ve done to be better than she was. Eila’s nails habitually find pity in boring themselves into her palms, and like puppeteering, her muscles twitch from the strings snapping taut. She’s beckoned to move in haste and never to stop because maybe she’ll fool herself with the illusion that nothing has changed, and soon, she’ll rise to another blissful morning. Desperate not to be heard, terrified she’ll cause unnecessary trouble, she clamps her jaw tightly and sows her lips. And the scream for someone to come and hold her and whisper sweet reassurances fogs the inside of her mouth like condensation windows from the icy chill of the Winter’s touch. 

A softer, more gentle voice utters that isolation only fuels the fire riling the boiling water. The thought coaxes rationality and sensibility that if Eila doesn’t find solace in releasing, she’ll be caught in the crossfire of her hatred for the world and her fear of hurting her loved ones. It scolds her in a motherly tone for swallowing an ignited pill and refusing to alleviate it with something cold. So, it dissolves. It roars across the inescapable routes like a forest fire, screeching and clawing at her insides.

Eila repeatedly revisits the world she knew. Tears roll down her crimson cheeks, and her throat burns to be heard. Her body begs to begin their movement of change—to live out her only Christmas wish. But she remains rigid, set aflame to the point of stagnation. She’s numb despite her mind thrashing scattered memories and thoughts across her vision to prevent suffering from the hopelessness of watching the horrid nightmare play.