Burned

My submission into the Writers Weekly 24-Hour Short Story Contest.

 

Burned

 

I knew better. I really did. Regardless, here I was consumed by it.

My dad was a volunteer firefighter. After my mom passed away, he had no choice but to take me to fires with him. Of course, I always stayed in the car.

It wasn’t like how it was for me now. I was alone and I felt so trapped. The heat danced on my skin, the crackling reds, oranges, and yellows reflected in my eyes, and the blackness filled my lungs.

I wasn’t scared though. For a plethora of reasons, I should have been, but I wasn’t. I only felt jaded.

I learned long ago that fire is actually dead silent. It doesn’t make a single noise. What you hear is the burning. It’s the eruption of chemical reactions, the release of heat, and little gas explosions.

Closing my eyes, I let the sounds of the fire drown my thoughts.

I could hear the sound of the rain on the roof as he stroked my long hair, making sure I was okay. I swear it took hours for my fever to break, but I relished every second of it. I felt so secure, so safe.

I could hear the sound of that old black and white film we watched together. I have no clue how he even found a projector, but I was so entranced by the static popping and hissing sounds of the film that I missed half of it.

I could hear the sound of bacon frying the first time he made me breakfast. I couldn’t ever tell him, but it wasn’t nearly as good as my mom’s. I loved him for trying though. I remember sitting at the counter with my head in my hands just so thankful that I still had him in my life.

I could hear the sound left behind by our footsteps in the woods. It was my favorite trip of all time " probably because we were able to spend so much time together.

“Just you and me,” he would say.

“Just you and me, that’s all we need.”

I believed him too.

Dealing with my mom’s death had been hard. I wanted to hide from the world, but he forced me to come out and face it again. That was ten years ago. Here I was now " a young woman " nearly eighteen years old. Every moment we shared together over those ten years had brought me to this exact moment in my life. At one time he made me feel so hopeful that I’d be okay. But now, he was also gone.

The heat was becoming too much to bear. Weird, it was so hot that I began to feel cold. Stumbling back to a safe distance, I took in the scene in front of me. The scene I had started with the strike of a single match.

Our old tree house was full ablaze. His and mine. The flames jumped from it as if they were trying to escape as well. The memories of our time together " of when I was sick, when we were cuddled on the couch watching that old film, when he cooked me breakfast, and when we took that trip " lingered in the air.

We spent so much time together in that tree house. The first time we met there we were just strangers, eight years old. He was my next-door neighbor looking for a playmate. I was a little girl looking for someone to save her from her grief. Over the years we became friends, then best friends, then lovers.

It was in that same old tree house that he told me had met someone else. That he no longer wanted to be with me.

Standing there, I searched for any hint of a breeze to soothe my burning face and to soothe the hurt I felt from his betrayal. I wanted to break free from the hold he had on my heart.

My eyes widened when I noticed the trucks fast approaching in the distance. The sirens now added to the sound of my distant memories.

That was my cue to leave. It was time to leave it all behind. 

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Author's Note

In no more than 875 words, I was to construct an original idea from the following topic:

With blistered, salty skin and matted hair, they were down to their last sips of fresh water. A recreational day at sea had turned into a fight for continued existence. Slumped on the bow, searching for any hint of a breeze to soothe her burning face, her eyes widened when she noticed something fast approaching in the distance...

Participants were instructed to create a story that touched upon this blurb, but that wasn't a direct lift. The relation to the assigned topic just needed to be obvious (and not simply a short story repurposed from the past).

Here's the spin I put on it.