Metaphorical Kaleidoscope

I’ve never been one for dark spaces. Something about the way sound is swallowed up, how the only sensation to go by is that of trembling hands, how every corner likes to press in towards me; it's a suffocating feeling. 

With a sigh, I turn uncomfortably over on my side. 

These are the types of thoughts my brain likes to pick apart and swallow, rationalising every previous twitch of muscle into the light hours of the night. When the sun knocks its watery fists on my window, it’s with bloodshot eyes I stare the day in the face. Stumbling through my morning has become second nature. A mumble, a rushed hug goodbye, and I am suddenly slouched into a cold bus seat. Music blares in my ears that I don’t remember playing. Still, I sit quietly and stare at the washed out skyline, my head drooping in a familiar dip as dull blues fade away. I jolt awake as the bus screeches to a stop. Have I tried not falling asleep on the bus? Yes. But if I don’t fall asleep there, then it’s in Bio class we catch up, and I’d rather have squealing tires wake me up than snickering classmates and a frowning Mrs. Carthy. Shouldering a backpack that feels too heavy for my shoulders, I make my way into school. 

In Bio that morning, I sit with my head resting on my hands, elbows propped against the desk, desperately trying to keep from nodding off. It's hot in the room, the stuffy air twining around me and settling in my ears, snuffing out the noise of Carthy’s droning voice. I blink. I rub my eyes. I stifle a yawn. 

Then there’s the high, squealing noise of the fire alarm. There’s a moment of panic, rushing feet and backpacks hauled onto shoulders. And now there’s no way I could have slept. 

I get to my feet along with the rest of the classroom, tossing my bag over my shoulder, and we do what we had thoroughly practised at every fire drill;

Running for our lives. 

Any thoughts of orderly lines and quiet exit rush from even the teachers’ minds and the crowds stumble and trip towards the exit. Smoke fills the air, hanging in dense, wavering clouds. My eyes burn, tears blurring my vision as a body bumps into mine. Then another. And suddenly I am knocked off my feet, a dull thud lost in the clamour of pounding feet and panicked shouting. Muttering a curse, I hunch over, clutching my bruised knee. The stampede of footsteps recede, and I clumsily get to my feet. I limp towards the exit, each step a screaming protest of muscle and skin. I ditch my bag, staggering as I see light begin to fill the entryway. A swift flood of heat and light blazes through my escape, fire licking eagerly at the walls, chasing itself in a tumbling, choppy sea of flame. My eyes water as I retreat back down the hall, my knee protesting greatly as I break into a run. The other end of the hallway bursts into a fiery haze, bits of the ceiling tumbling down as sweat trickles down my forehead. 

Slowly, I back away from the fire, each step feeling less and less certain. I inhale a lungful of smoky air, doubling over as it burns its way down my throat. With a hacking cough, I duck into a broom closet, the room blissfully cool compared to the growing heat of the halls. I shrug off my sweatshirt, tearing a piece off and wrapping it around my nose and mouth. It feels sort of… cool, almost, like how it feels in those action movies. It also feels like I’m going to burn alive. Cool streaks make their way down my face, whether from the acrid smoke or from the realisation that I could, and most likely will, not make it out of this broom closet. I hunch into the wall, a strangled noise breaking through the fabric of my sweatshirt. Did I say I love you when I walked out the door this morning? Will I ever get the chance to say that again? When was the last time I talked to my brother? Will he miss me? Will my friends miss me? How long will it take them to forget? Forget the poor quiet friend who was unfortunate enough to burn alongside the school's textbooks? I feel, more than see, fire lick at the door to the closet, greedy fingers tearing at the wood. It breaks a hole through it, sending a rush of hot air into the cramped space. I press against the wall, peering through the jagged break in the wood, staring the suffocating light of my death in the face. 

I’ve never been one for dark spaces, but the blinding light, burning at my hair, feels worse than any darkness. Something like a sob echoes through the small closet, my tears evaporating in the heat. I realise quickly that it was me who let out the ragged, choking cry. I turn from the fire, throwing my arms around myself. 

“I’m sorry,” I mutter into the scorching air. I’m not quite sure what I’m apologising for; maybe all the people I stumbled around when I should have stopped to help, all the conversations I never bothered to have. But as the first apology leaves my mouth, dripping brokenly onto the filthy ground, another follows, then another. They’re almost a mantra, the words I need to know I said, the words I need to know I meant, before there’s no more words left for me to say. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, a refusal to watch while the searing tongues of flame blaze along the walls. 

The hem of my shirt catches fire. 

My eyes try to cry—they fail.  

A slow wave of resignation falls over me. A calmness. I wait for the curling of flesh, the agonising twisting of tissue. I hear the crackling of burning wood, the crunch of steel that has had enough and has thrown down its burdens. A lone tear drips down my cheek, the feeling oddly soothing against my skin. Hissing through my teeth, I crawl to lean against the door, my eyes flying open. 

There, in front of my eyes, water droplets twist and dance through the air. The fire still rages, but the droplets meld together into a smooth, cool shield. Its surface resembles glass, delicate and thin. I reach towards it in a daze. My fingers make contact with the layer of water, the burns blistering from my hands dutifully sinking themselves back into smooth, shiny skin. At my touch, the water races away, rearing back like a startled animal, flooding easily back through the hole torn into the door of the closet. The flames go with it, leaving behind only the faint smell of smoke in my hair; the smell that reminds me of my family, perched on any manner of furniture we could find, speaking into the mesmerising glow of the campfire. I smile faintly, before scooting hesitantly closer to the opening. Catching my breath, I scan the remaining flames. They twist and bend, sharing a dance with the water. At the centre of the elegant web of glistening droplets, arms waving about elegantly, is what seems to be a woman. I blink, rubbing my eyes. My hands smell of smoke. The woman, being, is completely translucent, her hair flowing waves akin to a river, her body the still waters of a pond. She effortlessly waves a long arm, water playfully dousing each one of the flames. I begin to pull myself to my feet, grunting quietly as my knee throbs in pain. It seems the water hasn’t seeped through my bones and cured me of that. I lean against the doorframe, breathing heavily. A shard of wood crumbles and crashes to the floor. 

I curse under my breath, sliding out of sight. My eyes widen, staring, paranoid, into the semi-darkness of the closet. As I hunch, attempting to make myself smaller, there is a tinkling laugh, water droplets plinking against glass, and a rush of cool air. 

Then silence. My breathing feels dangerously loud in the silence. My body wants to feel exhausted. My brain will have no such thing. Quickly, I peek back out, fists clenched nervously. All I see in an unharmed, if unusually clean, hallway. I duck back into the closet and slide to sit with my back to the wall, my knee kicking and screaming all the way. I bring my smoky hands to my face, rubbing at my temples. 

“What the-” Even I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I blow out a frustrated breath. I was sleep deprived, I reasoned, sitting alone in the janitor’s closet. But still– I now held in my hands a metaphorical kaleidoscope, and no matter which way I stared through it, my eyes only saw one thing. 

Magic.

What else could that have been? 

I shakily stood again, opening the door and stepping out. I touched the walls, just moments ago alight with danger, now simply… there. 

Magic. Magic. 

I run the word around my head, testing the feel of it. Who am I kidding? It feels absurd. What just happened was absurd. But how else will everyone be able to explain a huge fire just- going out? 

The large doors swing open, hordes of students piling back in. Smiling, laughing, talking, they surround me. One pauses and runs up to me, half-smiling with furrowed brows. 

“Jordan?” I feel myself asking. He gives me a funny look. 

“Bro, there was a fire drill, where were you?”