As the first rays of the sun struggled to poke through the blinds, I jerked awake from an uneasy sleep. I looked up at the ceiling, calming my breath, and let the echos of my dream wash over my stirring consciousness in sharp detail before fading off into nothing, as echoes do. I got up, rinsed away the remains of uneasiness under the warm shower spray, and by the time I was ready for work I’d forgotten I had even dreamt at all.
I grabbed a cup of timer-prepared coffee and switched on my tv to the local news. All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. A pretty brunette reporter stood in front of the remains of a home that had been partially destroyed in a fire. Ash still floated behind her, smoke blurring the edges of everything in the camera’s view. I could feel the grime of it on my skin, could feel it coating my throat and the inside of my lungs. My whole body prickled with sudden heat, stretching in that way things do before they bubble and melt. Standing frozen in my warm, sunlit kitchen, I grew numb.
“…but thankfully, there were no casualties,” the reporter was saying. “The damage is contained mostly to the west side of the house…”
“In the library,” I whispered into my mug, breath mixing with the steam.
“…we spoke to the fire marshal, and according to her initial findings, the fire originated in the upstairs library, most likely due to an unattended fireplace…”
The grate had been empty. That I remembered. Closing my eyes, I could see it: the dim light of a street lamp slipping through a gap in the curtains, glancing over shelves stacked high with books and shadows, landing in strips on the thick, blood-colored rug. I walked slowly through the room, bare footsteps muffled, every cell in my body alert and waiting. There was movement in the stillness around me, a static in the silence. Something that existed right outside my field of vision waited, coiling to strike. My eye was drawn to the empty fireplace, unused for so many years. A spark snapped to life in the air before me and suddenly the world went black, awash with heat.
“…the family is unavailable for comment, currently being treated for injuries at a nearby hospital.”
“St. Francis would be closest,” I said, only realizing as the words left my mouth that I knew where the house was. I shook my head and quickly turned off the tv. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. Then I caught a glimpse of my hands as I lifted my coffee mug and immediately dropped it.
It landed upright with a thunk, black liquid sloshing all over the counter. The backs of my hands were cracking, my fingers bleeding. I turned them over to find my palms blistered and raw, as if I’d held them directly in the flame. My heart quickened in my throat, choking off my airway. I blinked.
My skin was whole, hands clammy but unharmed.
The fear response slithered over my spine in a way it hadn’t in years. I looked jerkily around the kitchen, only to find it empty. With a sigh, I slumped onto the stool, its wobbly legs clunking under me. I frowned at my still-hot coffee. The adrenaline buzzing under my skin had rendered it useless. I grabbed the mug by the top and carried it to the sink and rinsed it out. Then I wet a rag to wipe up the countertop. The whole time breathing deep and even, trying to calm myself.
Yet, no matter how many times I reminded myself that I was alone in my kitchen at home, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling of people rushing around me, the beep of heart monitors, the brusque footsteps of nurses down the hall.
“What the fuck?” I shouted, throwing the rag into the sink with a thwap. I shook my head furiously, but it didn’t clear.
The problem was, I knew exactly what was happening. I hated it, but I knew.
“Goddamnit, Ria,” I muttered, and headed for the door.
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