Fires Are Never Silent

The room I was in was a scorching oven, one where I didn’t have enough power to kick down a door. Smoke and flames surrounded me as I desperately tried to find an exit. Hindsight, I should’ve paid more attention to the safety procedures during the “what to do when a fire breaks out” case scenario. I didn’t know what I was doing, I wanted to make sure everyone was out on the streets safely.

I checked back to see if anyone was trapped but I ended up being the guilty party in that department. It was so hot, the flames were taller than me and it was frightening to look at. The carbon monoxide was suffocating, soot blinding my eyes. The scorching hot feather touches from the fire burned a part of my dress and slowly swallowed my hope. 

I wanted to do Ryan’s job, I wanted to save people and be the superhero for once. He came back home every morning knowing that if he wasn’t careful he could’ve been killed. He would risk his life to save others every night, super strength and brute-force running in his blood.

That scared me, the paralyzing fear of not hearing the door unlock every six-o-five a.m. didn’t reach my mind at the time. How he might have felt the same thing when he didn’t see me lined up on the street below the building. No one really thinks of dying while desperately trying to save others’ lives, you can’t have that mentality. You can’t give up if you want others to live.

Drip. Drop.

I didn’t think twice when spotting the beige door. It was the light at the end of the tunnel. It was too late when I grasped the metal handle. 

When trapped in a room during a fire, never open the door with a hot handle. It indicates a fire behind it. 

A sea of orange flames jumped at me, latching onto the rest of my dress, arms, face and neck. I felt the hairs on my skin shrivel up, my dress mingle with the sea of heat and the necklace Ryan gave to me that day press into my collarbone, melting into my heart. 

Drip. Drop.

The floor was cooler, I saw the ceiling blotched with black residue. I was aware of everything: the loud bends of metal crashing onto the floor, glass being blown out and the fire swirling around me. But the heat subsided; blood boiling, blistering pain dripped off me like a bead of sweat hitting the floor.

Drip. Drop.

Whoever said fires are silent are liars. A flame is the leader of war and anarchy. It goes wherever it pleases and destruction follows suit. 

Drip. Drop.

I thought I was immobilized, it felt that way. But I wiggled my fingers and toes, batted my eyes and turned my head. My throat was sand-dry but I managed to say a word. Help. You can’t think of dying if you want to save others' lives. 

-------

Drip. Drop. The IV sang. 

A duct was connected to me. The light above was so harsh I squinted my eyes and stirred around. I wasn’t on fire anymore but I felt the aftermath of the war.

I wasn’t dead. How?

Drip. Drop.

Silence. Other than the IV bag doing its work. I don’t get up, I still felt immobilized. It didn't feel real, like what I went through was a scene in an action film but I knew it wasn’t a figment of my imagination. The way my skin looked showed me a dated picture of what happened. Maybe it was the lighting but my veins were predominant against my dark skin. My mother told me as a kid that there was gold in our blood, whenever the sun shone on me I was enriched with a glow. But now I was disgusting to look at, unsettling.

I closed my eyes, clenching my fists. My body was lying there calmly yet everything I wanted to feel was trapped inside my mind. I wanted to feel something, express something but I couldn’t. I wanted to see the sun after the rainstorm, to feel the warmth of a bright light covering an old dusty room. I didn’t want to remember the fire engulfing me. I didn’t want to remember how I tried to be the superhero.  

Heat wraps around my wrists and slowly rushes around my skin. Flashes of that night flickered in my conscious like the spark of a lighter. When an image of the flames jumped at me I let go of the sheets and allowed a tear to burn through my temple.

Fires are never silent.

-------

I jerk up, screaming when I remember that night. Something my body couldn’t do at that moment.

Drip. Drop.

Ryan rises from his sleep, “What's wrong?” his voice is groggy and he rubs his eyes. I was doing so well. I’ve lost count on how many times I’ve done this. It's been three years and I still can't sleep properly. He stopped working at night to make sure I was okay. I needed his assistance, someone to hold and calm me down, to remind me that I am alive. 

“I’m okay, I’m sorry,” I say lazily. It's gotten better, but it was still bad.

“Don’t be sorry,” he touches my shoulder and instantly takes back his hand, wincing. “Priscilla, you’re burning up,” I wipe my tears and feel his soothing hand rest on my forehead, "why are you so hot? It feels like you’re on fire.”

Horrible choice of words.

I don't feel hot, just emotionally unwell. I excuse myself and go to the washroom, my breath catches in my throat and an irregular heartbeat thumps in my chest. I lock the washroom door and latch onto the sink as if my life depends on it, taking in deep breaths of untainted air. I know I'm alright, despite the tears trailing down my cheeks.

Drip. Drop. The faucet went. 

I pat my cheeks, residue of turmoil prints on my skin. Thinking nothing of it, I twist the knob and submerged my fingers into the water. Steam pours into hands and I scream. My fingers are shaking, drops of water dragging past my once perfect skin.

Wussssssh.

I thought it was cold water. Steam rings through the faucet, a thin line of vapour wraps around the drain. I watch the water pour and count my breathing until I can't take it anymore. I turn off the water and sink to the ground.

Drip. Drop.

“Honey, are you okay in there?” 

“Y-yeah…” 

“Can you come out for a sec?” 

“No…”

“Why not?” 

“I’m having really bad cramps right now.”

“Do you need ibuprofen?”

“God, Ryan, I just need you to go back to sleep!” I close my eyes, hoping that I will wake up and realize that the last three years was some sick nightmare. “I’ll be fine.”

I hear the bedroom door close and I open my eyes again.

Drip. Drop. 

I still feel the fire. I still smell the foul scent of wood burning, metal bending, and fabric disintegrating. I still taste the coals being pressed against my throat, rolling up my tongue. I still hear my struggled cries for help. I look in the mirror and stare at the skin my mother once called gold. I start to cry.

Drip. Drop.