Hard to Love

11. Laura

There are no streetlights on my grandma's street. They're something the city never put in. So when I park, I don't turn off the car yet. I want that bit of illumination from my headlights as I take out my phone and peek at what Cami texted back.

I grin when I see her message about how she still hurts. But it's a good kind of hurt. I know the feeling. Is every time like this? she wrote in the last text.

Only the good ones, I reply before tossing the phone back into my purse. Taking a quick look around, I turn off the car and palm my keys. I've never liked the dark. But I especially don't like it here anymore.

I catch sight of a black sedan idling a few cars up. It would be hard to miss it. It's a sleek car and looks expensive; it looks like it doesn't belong here. The red brake lights come on and the car pulls away a little too fast, making their tires squeal. It's odd they'd drive away so quickly and because of that, I try to read the license plate, but all I get are the first two numbers. One and seven. I try not to care that I didn't see the rest of the plate. It's a habit I have, but this is just a random car.

It sends this weird vibe through me, though. Seeing that car take off... I can't shake it even though it's just a car. I don't know most of the people on this street anymore.

It's nothing, I tell myself and think about Cami's text again. But the odd feeling, that little stir of anxiousness, sits like a rock in the pit of my stomach.

All the good feelings from taking the practice entrance exam this morning seem to drain from me as I take the stone stairs up to the porch. I practically aced the test. I can't believe it. I didn't actually think I'd do well enough to even consider putting in my application anywhere. I never did well in school, so why would I? A hint of a smile tries to pull my lips up, but then I hear the gentle creak of the rusty porch swing. It lingers in the quiet air like the memories do. Grandma would have been so proud.

This place will always have memories around every corner and in every crevice, even if it's lifeless. Lacking everything it held when I was a kid. The dark and the quiet are reminders of everything that's gone. Everything that will never come back.

My eyes are on the ground while I walk, which is why I'm so shocked when I reach up to put the key in the door, only to find it already open.

The wooden frame is splintered. Confusion hits me first. I haven't even put the key in yet.

Thump.

The lock is still turned; I can see the hunk of metal as the door brushes open with the slight touch of my hand. Gasping, I try to stay calm, but I don't see how I can as the reality registers.

Thump.

The shoe print on the door is black against the white door. Someone kicked in the door.

"Fuck," I say and the curse leaves my lips in a whisper.

I'm half a step back, feeling the racing need to run take over when I smell smoke.

And then I see the bright red and orange flames beyond the cracked frame.

It's on fire. My grandma's house is on fire. No! God, no!

"Help!" I scream, gripping the keys so hard in my hand it feels like they've broken my skin.

My hands are shaking as I fumble in my purse. My keys drop harshly onto the concrete porch. Then something else, maybe my sunglasses; I don't know and I don't care.

I just need my phone.

I'm still shaking when I finally find it. Struggling with both hands to grip it and dial 9-1-1, I drop my purse and stand there on weak legs as I stare straight ahead, watching the bright red expand alongside billowing white and gray smoke. The hallway is clear, telling me it's the kitchen. The kitchen is on fire. The flames are high, almost to the ceiling. It's too far gone. No, no, please tell me this is a nightmare.