A Bland Life

In the early morning when I looked in the mirror and was met with a scorching house fire. I became awash with flames and the slow realization that I, in fact, lived a rather bland life. I walked the same neighborhood and looked out the same window every day. I cooked and ate the same meals. I slept in the same bed and washed my face in the same sink. Nothing had or would change about my environment if I let it, except that the inferno had trapped me inside the four beige walls and white porcelain fixtures. I always told myself that one day I would renovate that house and update it out of its 1970’s drab color palette and torturous cheap design. But, of course, that didn’t happen and the charred remains can still be poked around to find the same yellow wallpaper and faux wood paneling. The shag carpet didn’t even burn up completely! 

However, in that moment of pure enlightenment, I also came to the realization that I was in fact trapped inside of a burning house and there were no windows to bravely hurl myself out of. The only way out was through. The flames started to crest the door frame and wall off the entrance with bricks of smoke and heat. I uncharacteristically took several deep breaths, steeled myself, and leapt feet first through the flames and remarkably landed upright in my slippers. Miraculously, only the tail end of my navy blue robe was lightly burned. The bedroom I found myself in next was boring with cream-colored paint, a mattress on the floor, and a single picture of me and my ex-girlfriend hanging on the wall. She always claimed she would have to be the protector of the house in emergencies, and quite frankly, I don’t think she would have been wrong if she was here now. I quickly rushed out of the room and slammed into the opposite wall of the hallway. Of course, with my lack of muscle and fat, that hit was taken directly and my skin later welcomed a bruise to make a home on that arm. But, these things are to be expected when one is running for their life (despite how unimaginative it may be.) 

Of course, I felt like a superhero as I dashed through the burning hallways and rooms. Orange and black consumed my view and the raw intensity of the heat could be felt on my face and hands. My legs felt nothing as I marathoned through the house at a breakneck speed I never knew I had. The adrenaline transformed me from someone who was skinny and unathletic in every sense of the word, into a towering representation of the chiseled Vitruvian Man. I had become someone who felt no fear and whose pain tolerance shot straight to the moon. 

That was until I gazed around outside to find myself standing in my front yard with slippers, a navy blue bathrobe, white boxers with red stripes, no shirt, and all of my neighbors. My pounding chest quieted and I began to feel my veins constrict in agony from all the physical exercise they never get. My tall stature left me as I began to slouch again and my nose and eyes started to burn with all of the noxious gas that I had gulped down while breathing heavy inside of the house. 

My eyes began to well up as I stood in complete silence and watched my childhood home bust the windows out and destroy itself. The low roar that the fire made was the only sound I could hear. Not even the birds cried out in the midst of the new day. The roof finally caved in and the interior walls could be heard screaming out as the moisture of the attic that I never fixed began to fizzle and pop inside the wood. It broke the monotony of the roar and one neighbor asked nonchalantly if there was anything that I might need from inside. I responded with a slight shaking of my head. It was my mother’s home and I stayed in it until she finally passed several years ago. I tried to leave and be my own man, but the world kicked me down and I returned to her house defeated and began to shut myself into a world of safety and comfort. The only thing that I might have needed was that picture on the wall in my bedroom, but I later learned that she moved half a million miles away to live with a deckhand she met on the cruise I took her on for her birthday. 

The sun began to rise over the tops of the fences and trees and joined the burning house in painting the world in an orangey haze. The house and all of its billowing smoke were the main actors on the stage of the neighborhood gossip and slowly they shuffled over to me one-by-one to say condolences and finally walk down the street to return to their morning cups of coffee and lives. They couldn’t understand that my whole life and all of my character were burned up in those dreadful twenty minutes. 

The fire trucks finally rolled in and the dying orange of the house was assisted by the red shadows cast by the lights on the trucks. The remains of the house’s carcass were finally extinguished and the scavengers donned in the fireman’s uniform were sent into the dead beast to find the source of its demise. They picked through the rubble and laughed as they would raise artifacts of a bygone era like a VHS player or a landline receiver and shouted at each other “Remember this?” I simply sat on the curb and let them have their fun, at least someone could get a benefit out of this. As they trudged through the articles of my past life I laid my head on the grass and fell fast asleep. 

The scene played in my head again. The fire was just as real and the smoke was just as choking. Except, this time instead of standing on my front lawn watching, I walked to the nearest bank and withdrew everything I had. I collected my safety deposit box and took all of that money to the bus stop and got on a Greyhound going south. I arrived in a port city and bought a bungalow on the water with cash and lived out my days on the dock. I would paddle around the harbor and waterways in a small rowboat and would sit on the beach and brown in the sun. There were no worries about who I had to be or if this was the way I truly wanted to live. In the depths of my heart, I felt the joy of being there. However, in the dream, I find myself in old age: withered and weather-beaten. Normally, I would be concerned that those wrinkles and deep lines in my face are from worthy accomplishments or from something I could be proud of. But in my dream state, I simply looked at my leathery and time-battered body and smiled. I enjoyed my years living an easy life and being happy about small things like getting the wind to my back or catching a fish that’s larger than usual. 

Next thing I know, I’m being kicked and find myself jolted awake suddenly with a man towering over me. I’m sure no one even noticed me as they walked around and taped off the scene. Noone saw my small frame on the grass or didn’t feel it was their responsibility to check on someone who looked so insignificant. However, when he kicked me I hurriedly scrambled to my feet and tried to appear like I knew when and where I was. He looked annoyed to be there and even less thrilled to have been dealing with me. But I quickly looked around and saw the smoldering wreck of my home and belongings. I sharpened up and looked at him wide-eyed; expectantly.

“This was a pretty standard fire.” he declared with a bureaucratic voice. 

I didn’t say anything and waited for him to finish. He looked at me to see if I was going to say anything and looked even more annoyed that I didn’t. 

He cleared his throat and soldiered on, “There isn’t much left except some furnishings and odds and ends, but we didn’t find any items of significance.”

To this, I nodded and murmured something back about the house being relatively empty. He found that response a bit more satisfactory and concluded with, “The source of the fire appears to be a computer that was left on overnight and burned itself out. The fan appeared nonfunctional and it simply got too hot.” 

I immediately flashbacked to the night before and winning a castle raid with my guild in an online game. Nerdy, I know, but it was a standard Thursday night routine and something that I took completely for granted. Now I wondered to myself, “We had won, but at what cost?”

I snapped back to reality after seeing the pixels in my mind and found this time the fireman didn’t wait for a dialogue to be opened. Instead, he just vanished into the sea of firemen and first responders all standing around chatting, waiting for the house to be completely extinguished. Some looked at me and whispered amongst themselves. Others completely ignored me and carried on like my existence wasn’t worth noticing. Not to say that is a bad thing; I’m sure if I were called up early in the morning to put out a fire because some idiot couldn’t turn off his computer properly, I wouldn’t be too excited either. Besides, I’m not exactly an imposing figure in the world. 

Therefore, I could slip away without being seen and I did just that. I ducked under the yellow caution tape and took a glance back on the charred remnants of who I used to be and took off down the road. The house would sit as a pile of broken beams and burnt goop for a long time until a developer paved the whole thing over and put up a brand new mini-mansion in its place with no regard to ownership of the eventually and aptly named “Ghost Lot.” 

This morning when I looked in the mirror I was met with the burning orange of the sun as it came through the shutters on my small hut and I was awash with the realization that I live a bland life. A bland life that I find enjoyable and one that I know won’t be regretted.