The Fire Next Door

There are two things that wake me.

The first is the acrid smell of smoke, drifting in through the small crack in my window. The second are the golden orange flames that I can see painted in the sky surrounding a cottage. 

It’s Peter’s. 

My feet are moving off their own accord as I slip on my robe, throw on my boots, and tear across my lawn towards the house opposite my own.

It seems silly to knock, but I do so anyways. 

“Peter!” I bang my fist against the door, but the wood is hot. Hotter still is the door handle as I grab for it, then quickly set it down with a yelp. “Peter! It’s Dorothy!” 

I back up a few steps. Perhaps he’s gotten out through a window, or a back door…maybe the house is empty and I’m getting worried for nothing.

But no! There’s a faint coughing from inside. So faint that perhaps I’m imagining it. But still...if there’s a chance that he’s in there I have to help him.

He may be rude, reclusive, and uninterested in everything that happens in this town, but that doesn’t mean he should die.

“Peter!” I move back to the front door. “I’m coming in!”

Before I lose my nerve I slam myself into the door. My side burns, but I keep going, throwing my weight against the wood until it finally caves in.

I fall on my face, not even two feet away from a path of flames.

My palms sting, my side is on fire (not literally thankfully), and as I stand, brushing off pieces of wood, I fight back a cough.

The fire must have been going for a while, because between the dark clouds of smoke and the golden orange flames, I can’t make out the tiny cottage that I had been in only once before.

The wallpaper is peeling, falling down in clumps of flame, the sitting room is made entirely of fire, the stairs are creaking and groaning to my right, and there’s a cough almost directly in front of me.

The kitchen. It’s coming from the kitchen. 

“Peter!” I throw my arm over my mouth, squinting against the burning in my eyes as I stumble towards the room. “...Peter?” 

Through my tears and through the smoke I can make out the blurry outline of a figure. It’s Peter, slumped over in his chair at a table whose legs are crawling with flames, in front of the largest bottle of whiskey I’ve ever seen.

“Peter?” I manage to avoid the trail of flames in front of him as I tap his shoulder. “Peter!” I smack his arm this time. “Peter!”

He makes an unintelligible noise and I feel a small part of my fear subside. At least he’s partially awake.

Hopefully one of the neighbours has already called the police. Then I kick myself because I’m the only neighbour for miles.

“Peter!” I shake his shoulders, bending over so I can peer into his face. “Peter come on! We have to go!” The fabric of his suit is scratchy as I wrap my hands around his arm and yank. He doesn’t move. Instead he makes another noise that sounds like a groan.

“PETER!” I let go of his arm and scan the room. 

There’s a pitcher of water, waiting almost comically on the counter, surrounded by flames. I grab it, then throw its contents all over Peter.

Some of the water trickles to the ground, but it does little to douse the ever growing flames. But at least it works on Peter.

He stirs, moving a hand to run it over his sopping face and hair. “...Dorothy?” He frowns, swaying in his seat a little. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?!” I set down the jug and once more grab for his arm. This time he stands, slumping halfway onto my shoulder. “What are you still doing in here?”

“Drinking.” He mumbles.

“Clearly.” I try to prop him up as best as I can onto my shoulder, but he’s too heavy. And he evidently can’t walk on his own. I manage to wrap one arm around his waist, and move his own onto my shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

“No,” He mumbles as we half half walk, half stumble towards the door. “Just leave me here.”

I’m so shocked that I almost walk right into a fallen beam, it’s wood crackling with flames. 

“In the sitting room,” He continues, slumping even further onto my shoulder. “Just...leave me in the sitting room.”

“ARE YOU INSANE!” My voice is high and thick with smoke, as I turn to look at him as best as I can.

His eyes are half lidded, but even so I can make out the streaks of red around the brown of his iris. They’re unfocused and staring at a point somewhere on the ground. He shakes his head feebly and I resolve not to ask him any questions until we’re at the hospital.

He doesn’t even try to resist as I haul him past the flaming sitting room and out the front doors, just as a resounding crack comes from behind us.

I don’t bother to look back, but Peter does, mumbling something under his breath that’s too low for me to hear.

“Where are we going?” He stumbles alongside me, as I hurry us across the dirt road towards my cottage and my truck parked out front. 

“The hospital.” I pull open the passenger side door and practically shove him inside. He slumps over again, but I don’t bother to fix him as I slam the door shut.

“Can you put on your seatbelt?” I ask, once in the driver’s seat.

“Yes.” He looks to his sides, his hands fumbling for the belt. 

I watch him struggle for another few seconds before I lean across and fasten the belt myself.

“Hang on, okay?” I switch on the ignition, wrapping my robe tighter around my nightgown. Without the heat of the flames, the chill fall air is starting to sink into me. Peter, in his suit that I recognize he was wearing the day before, seems fine. Probably the heavy use of alcohol. I can smell it from here.

“If you have to vomit,” I continue. “Please don’t do it on my seat.”

He gives me a crooked grin, unlike himself in every way. “You got it.”

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the drive and neither do I, he only hums to himself, leaning back against the seat with his eyes closed. I help him out again once we reach the hospital, then pass him into a nurse’s arms and watch as he’s carried away into a side room, continuing to hum all the while.

****

“You’re Miss Dorothy Smith?”

I look up instinctively at my name being spoken. There’s a nurse in front of me, her eyes kind as she gives me a small smile.

“Yes.” I stand, smoothing out my nightgown and robe. I hadn’t yet had the chance to go home and change even though it’s been a few hours.

Despite the doctors and nurses ensuring me that Peter would be fine, I had already made up my mind when I saw him being led into a room; I would stay. Just long enough to see him awake and relatively well. Then I could go back home and possibly try to find some sleep, although with a ruined home across from me, and the lingering scent of smoke most likely still in the air I don’t know how much sleep I would be able to get. 

I made sure that the proper authorities had been contacted when we reached the hospital, so hopefully the fire is out. 

“He’s awake.” The nurse says, ushering me to follow her. “And he’s been asking for you.”

“Asking for me?” I smooth down my hair too, trying to make myself semi presentable.

“Mhm.” She opens a door and gently pushes me inside. “Ten minutes and I’ll be back to check in. But he should be fine to leave in the next hour or so.” Then the door is closing behind me and I’m forced to take a few more steps inside the room.

“Hello Peter.” I make my way over to the chair beside his bed. “How do you feel?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” I adjust my thin nightgown over the seat of the chair, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Get me out of my house.”

The question is so ludicrous I almost laugh. “Well, I don’t know, maybe because it was burning?” I glare at him. “What kind of question is that? No thank you for saving my life? Only why did you save my life?”

He frowns. “You ruined everything.”

I can only gape at him. “Ruined? I saved you! Did you want me to just let you die?”

“Yes.”

For a moment my angry thoughts leave me, and my fiery insult dies on my lips. There’s only Peter lying in the bed, his hair tousled and his dull gaze fixed on the wall.

And suddenly it all makes perfect sense.

“You started the fire, didn’t you?” My voice is so low that at first I don’t think he hears it. Or perhaps he’s just ignoring my question. 

The seconds have stretched to minutes by the time he answers with a sharp and quick, “Yes.”

My next question should probably be why. But asking someone why they would attempt suicide is quite possibly the stupidest question, and not one I expect to be answered when I hardly know the man. 

Instead I sit in silence. The only sounds are the soft and shallow breathing of me and Peter, and the faint rustling of bed sheets as he readjusts himself. 

“I’m sorry.” I manage after a moment, no other words that I can think of to say. “Would you like to talk about it?” I force myself to meet his gaze. He’s already studying me intently.

Peter narrows his eyes. “Talk about what?” 

I purse my lips. “You know what.”

He holds my look for a minute before shaking his head. Looking away. “You wouldn’t understand, Dorothy.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. How could I if you don’t want to tell me?” I lower my voice, realizing that it sounded too loud and harsh. “But you don’t have to of course,” I amend. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. Physically. And if you are…” I trail off, glancing at the door as if it will admit the nurse to save this conversation.

“You could have died.” Peter mutters.

I look back at him, unsure of what to say. It feels like I’ve already ruined the moment with my questions. 

“You could have died.” He repeats. “And it would have been because of me. And too many other people have already died because of me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” I mumble, focusing on a loose thread in my robe. I twist it around my finger, the blue string pulling taut. 

“It is. If you knew what happened to my family,” He sucks in a sharp breath. “If you knew what happened to my family, you wouldn’t say such things.”

“Maybe.” I snap the thread off and let it fall to the floor. “Or maybe you could tell me about them? Perhaps it would make you feel better.”

He’s quiet for a few long moments, and this time I’m sure he won’t answer the question. That he’ll just sit in silence until I take my leave. But when I look at his face I realize that he looks like he’s...concentrating. He’s turned towards me, looking at me, but looking past me, his eyes caught in reliving a memory.

“My parents left us when Jack had just turned 20. It was me, him, Bill, and Carrie. We lived in this small apartment further into town, and we were scraping by everyday to make some kind of living for ourselves. Even though everything was far from perfect we somehow made it work. Somehow managed to have fun.” He smiles wistfully.

“Carrie was only 12, and taking it harder than the rest of us. So every night around our dinner of bread and beans me, Bill, and Jack made it our job to make sure she smiled. We would tell her the most outlandish stories of goblins and dragons until it made her face red from laughing. And she had a wonderful laugh,” He shakes his head, and I catch the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “Our apartment was filled with sadness, but in moments like those it was hard to see that. Hard to hear anything but Carrie’s laughter actually.”

“She sounds lovely,” I furiously blink back the tears starting to grow in my own eyes. “And what about your brothers?”

“Bill had a wheezy laugh if that’s what you're asking.”

“No,” I shake my head, quickly wiping my tears away before he can see them. “What were they like?”

Peter furrows his brow for a moment. “Jack was busy most nights, working different jobs to support us, but when he came home he always managed a smile or something reassuring. He took on the most, and he never broke from the weight.” Peter shakes his head. “I always wondered how he did it…” He looks back at me. “And Bill was the same, as the second eldest. He made Carrie laugh the hardest. He made sure that she always had clean dresses to wear, and pins for her hair. He took care of her the best. He was more of a dreamer too. He wanted a big house in the country. We all did, actually. Somewhere far away from our tiny apartment and the memory of the parents who left us.”

Silence once again reigns.

“I’m sure they’re proud of you...from wherever they may be.” I say into the quiet. “You managed to get a cottage! A nice piece of the countryside, like how they always wanted.”

Peter chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Yes, then I burnt it down.”

“You can always rebuild.” I reply. “I can even help if you’d like.”

Peter regards me in silence. Not an angry kind, more of a...wondrous kind. “Why would you be willing to help me?”

“Because…” I struggle for an answer that feels right. “You may be reclusive and rude on occasion, but you don’t deserve to be surrounded by so much grief. I don’t think anyone does.” I offer his wide eyed gaze a small smile. “Besides, the ruins of your cottage will look like an ugly dark mess from the view of my windows.”

“So you’re interested in the view I can provide?” His lips curve upwards.

I look away, refusing to let him see my smile in full.

The nurse chooses this moment to make a reappearance. “Miss Smith? Mister Wood?” The nurse smiles. “Miss Smith if I could have a moment alone with Mister Wood, to make sure he’s ready for discharge?”

“Of course.” I stand and give Peter a tiny nod. “I suppose I’ll see you around…?”

Peter smiles, a spark of warmth in his eyes. “You will.”

The nurse closes the door shut behind me, leaving me to make my way out of the hospital and my truck parked out front.

The faint golds and purples and blues of the sunrise are starting to peek over the horizon, as I climb into the seat and set off towards home.

There’s not a hint of smoke in the brightening sky.