Fire
written by: Emee Ring
I smelled smoke before I saw the flames licking the faded green wallpaper of the dining room. In less than a minute, the fire jumped to the ceiling beams like little orange monkeys, running and then latching onto the dry wood. Our home was three stories plus a basement, over 100 years old.
I knew I should leave, but I only took steps backward, watching the flames, trying not to breathe the smoke. The fire was oddly beautiful. As it ravenously consumed the wood, I wondered if it was grateful for the opportunity to eat. I knew this was crazy thinking. I was standing in a burning house.
What did I need? My passport. I kept it upstairs on the second floor, in a fire-proof file folder. I ran up the stairs and opened my closet. Should I take a few sweaters? Some pants?
“Leave everything! Don’t take anything,” played in my head. Many times in my twenty years, I’d heard this admonishment. But I grabbed a couple of shirts and a purse, amazed at the realization I didn’t need most of this stuff. People say that losing everything is quite freeing.
My passport wasn’t there. It must be in the third-floor closet. I stood on the landing and looked down. No fire yet on the stairs. I had time.
I found my passport in the upstairs closet and threw it into a cardboard box with the purse and the clothes. A fire-fighter’s booming voice yelled up the staircase, “IS ANYONE IN HERE?” There should be no others in the house; my family would be outside.
There is no fire escape on the third floor, just a rope ladder out the second-floor bedroom window, so I needed to descend before it was too late.
But I had time. This wasn’t the first fire I set.
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