Smoke

I woke up and got ready like any other day. I had breakfast like any other day. I sat down and did my work like any other day. Nothing unusual as I typed away, made phone calls, had lunch, dinner, brushed my teeth and went to sleep.

Then it happened. First I was dreaming of myself at work. Typing, typing, typing. I was on a roll. Thinking how it felt so mundane to dream about work, but welcoming it anyways. Then I smelled something. Smoke.

It happened fast. Then I woke up.

My first thought was to warn my neighbor on my left. He didn’t answer his door. Then my neighbor on my right. He opened the door to his apartment in a robe. I didn’t realize how early it was, 6 am. I told him to be careful.

“I don’t know where you got the idea there’s going to be a fire. This isn’t like my last apartment. Someone used their oven as a heater and everything went up in flames. People have more common sense here.”

With a yawn, he shut his door.

Finally, I went to my neighbor across from me. His dog came first and yapped at the door. He didn’t answer either. I needed him to answer. I knocked again, and again. Then I had to give up. People were still sleeping.

I went back to my apartment and waited. Slow, agonizing hours passed. Then I made breakfast. I went to take a bite, but realized I couldn’t stomach it. Crispy potatoes and a runny egg. It’s so appetizing, but I’m too stressed. So I wrap it up and let it sit in the fridge. I got properly dressed.

Work. I can’t do it yet. So I do more rounds. One neighbor is holding her baby and dismisses me. Another laughs. The first one I’d knocked on that morning asked me if I was getting enough sleep. The neighbor across from me doesn’t answer. His dog is quiet this time. I slip a note under his door.

Lunch comes around. I haven’t made any calls. I haven’t written any more of my book. Only the premonition. I go over it again and again, trying to squeeze out every excruciating detail. Then I wonder, if someone found my texts, would they think I caused this? I erase what I’ve written. I don’t bother making lunch.

I get a call from my editor. Why haven’t I called them today with feedback? I tell her that I’m not feeling well. If my neighbors don’t believe me, why should she? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just a dream, no matter how vivid it was. I could still smell the smoke. She recommends I get some fresh air, so I do.

I walk for about 20 minutes to a cafe. The barista already knows what I’m going to order. My worries must be pasted on my face, as she makes my rough day drink: frozen coffee with lots of chocolate and a shot of espresso poured over the top. I get an egg sandwich as well. I sit by the window and from my table, I watch people walk by. 

A mother with a screaming child, her arms are full of bags as she struggles to pull her child alongside her. A young person with a mohawk and a leather jacket. They’ve clearly sewn on the patches themselves. They have a messenger bag and a binder, a student? An older gentleman with a white ponytail and an instrument case. Looks like a violin, or similar, A train rolls by. I take a sip of my drink, and I feel better.

Leaving the cafe, I stroll around downtown for book inspiration. There’s an upscale boutique, a well-established pet store, a novelty bookshop. People walk by on their phones with their arms full. In their arms are shopping bags with clothing, toys, bread, books, fruit.

I come upon the farmer’s market. By this point, most of their stock has been picked over and some stalls are even packing up to leave. A burly man at a honey stall waves me over. We’ve met before. He’s very knowledgeable at what he does. Today he has new candles. 

I go through them, smelling citrus, pineapple, mint and strawberry, mango and cilantro, smoke. A shiver runs down my spine. I thank him and get on my way back home. My heart pounds as I round the corner and come upon the apartment building. 

It’s quiet. The building is pristine, showing it’s rosy red bricks and shiny windows. It looks untouched by time. I walk up to the entryway and unlock it. The lobby is equally clean and welcoming. What misery it would bring to lose such a wonderful home. I tear up.

I lug myself upstairs, One flight, then another, then another. The fourth floor hallway is well lit and freshly vacuumed. I come to my door, highlighted by an old doormat adorned with wildflowers and a tacky welcome, “Good vibes only!”

I look behind me. I can see light creeping out from under my neighbor’s door, vibrant from the setting sun. I turn back to my door and pause. Should I knock again? I can feel my face go cold as terror continues to consume me. I decide against knocking.

I go in and make a cup of tea. Earl grey. I steam milk and sit at my work desk. I open my book document. I slump, then immediately close it again. There’s no way I’m writing today. Maybe if I dont type, it won’t happen. I’m exhausted. I don’t brush my teeth. I trudge my way to bed and crash. I dream of sunlight and clean rivers. My mind is cleared.

I wake up, I got ready like any other day. I had breakfast like any other day. I sat down and did my work like any other day. Nothing unusual as I typed away, made phone calls, had lunch, I made grilled cheese.

I sit down and write about the comfort of a train as it winds its way down the tracks from start to finish. Leaving it’s dark home to brighter pastures. My main character has just left behind their hometown again for a new semester at university. It had been overbearing to be at home, the weight leaving their shoulders as they got farther and farther away.

I daydream of my own train ride. Going out to the country. I have my old laptop bag and a sketchbook. Going to a far out college town. Finding a new cafe. Smells of coffee, baked bread, smoke.

I snap back. My heart stops. I look up. It’s so hot, And smoke makes its way in from under my door. I jump up and slam open my front door, burning my hand on the doorknob. I come to the door of my neighbor across the hall and slam into his door. It doesn’t budge. His dog is barking and crying. I hear scratching. I bang my fists as loud as possible, but the smoke fills my lungs. I smell burnt food. There’s banging coming from the stairway. 

My eyes sting as the smoke fogs my eyes. I fall to the floor from hyperventilating, taking in huge gulps of the tainted air. I black out.