The Need To Survive

A Story by K.Baker

Short story about trust, fake identities, survival and your past.

I've got to get out of here. My heart is pounding and I'm soaked in gasoline. Some maniac is running around the building with a lit torch, screaming something I can't quite make out. For some reason I can't move. My body won't let me. He's done something. Altered me in some way so it's impossible for me to escape. He wants me here. My bones, muscles, every part of my being to be here with him. But for how long is the question. What does he want? Why does he want it? What did I do?

I can see an orange glow slowly making it's way towards me. Though, I notice it's a lot lower than I am. Beneath me? But how? How can I see it beneath where I currently lay. A second floor. A two story building. I see a silhouette of a stairway just outside of my reach. I can smell the gas, I can feel it creep its way inside my nose, burning just a little more every time I inhale. Almost unbearable, it makes me want to stop breathing. But isn't that what my tormentor wants? For me to stop breathing? I knew I couldn't give up. I inhaled and exhaled, pushing the thought of my burning brain cells out of my mind.

The room is getting darker and is starting to fill with smoke. The glow from the orange flame becomes closer. I can feel the heat begin to touch my exposed skin. I had the instant reaction to move away, like a young child who had put his hand on a hot stove. Only, it was impossible. I had no control of my movements and muscles. Every limb seemed to be controlled by the figure. If it wasn't the exact way he wanted me to move, I wouldn't. Thoughts had started flying through my head at a rate I could barely keep up with. Why in god's name would I be here? And what the hell did I do to deserve this? But through thought upon thought, there was one that grabbed me and made me think back to a time previous to this.

One of my clients, John Foley. I had started sessions with him 2 months ago. He was in a rut. He had committed a life altering crime that ruined his appearance and who he was altogether. It's hard to help someone who did something you can barely agree with yourself. But I guess that comes with the job title. John had come to be because he had been accused of arson and was sentenced to a year of therapy. If he had his way, the meetings would go unattended. But that's where I come in. Talks upon talks, I thought he had made progress. I thought he had changed for the better. Was I wrong?

I look down at my hands and see nothing but blood. Where was I bleeding? What had been cut? I don't feel any pain, which leads me to no conclusion. But it was there, pools and pools of it. Running down my forearm, my leg, my inner thigh. I try with everything I have to move my fingers, my arms, my legs, but nothing works. I knew I must not have much time. All I could think to myself as I lay there helpless was, “Could this really be it? Will everything end for me in this unmarked room? I'd bleed my own blood until there no longer was any more.

The sounds of sirens and fire engines racing down the street fill my ears. The thought that they wouldn't make it in time made me realize the end was closing in. I had prayed harder than any religious person had prayed before. My eyes were closing; in some way I would say it was a miracle. My fingers regained mobility even for the slightest second. But that one second of movement gave me hope. Slowly and maybe only a centimeter, my fingertips moved. I thought to myself that I must look like an inchworm trying to make its way over to a leaf that lay just an inch away, just one little movement at a time.

I was in shock. Maybe whatever “John,” my maniac patient had given me had been wearing off. He had never been the brightest bulb, so it was perfectly possible. It occurred to me that I might just get out of here, if only I gained the willpower to move; to crawl to an exit. The paralyzed state he had me in, no longer had me chained to his craving for crime. Trying, and then trying again my arms and legs moved. Slowly but surely, they regained mobility.

The army crawl: All muscle, hardly any leg movement, I moved myself inch my inch to a small bathroom I thought could have a window, due to being on the second floor. The red lights from the police cars on the street reflected off the six by six inch mirror. Or was it a flame? Something told me to keep moving faster, and not to look back. I needed to get out. I needed to see my little girl at her next recital. The power of love and the want to be alive took over, as the flames grew stronger, bigger, and hotter. And the smell of burning flesh took over my senses.

Down the stairs I rolled, it was the fastest way down. I couldn't stand. My legs had been sliced and diced, and my bones had been snapped. Pain was one thing, but the fight to see my wife and daughter was the stronger of the two. The door flew open as I lay at the bottom of the stairs. Who I thought to be Officer Peterson took my arm and dragged me outside. I hadn't any feeling in my lower leg. It was the thigh and the upper leg muscle, and mostly arm muscle that pulled me to flail myself down the stairs.

The air was cold, but in a way I didn't care. It felt good. It felt good to be alive. Strength was hard to come by as I lied on the stretcher. Yet I needed it. I needed answers. Who was this man, and what did I do. Before I had blacked out on the ride to “Burn Unit 3,” the man standing above me answered the questions I had so much wondered about.

“John Foley had suffered from split personality disorder. Right and wrong was not obvious to him. He needed the feeling of fire, the larger the flame, the better the reaction. John Foley was pronounced dead upon arrival at the scene. He had burned to death in the second floor bathroom. We are calling it suicide. And you, Richard, are lucky to be alive. Consider yourself blessed. Someone was looking out for you.”