It’s just like snow. I had imagined it differently.
I had imagined screams, and crying, and clinging to people, and running. But tonight the fire struck quietly.
It started late in the night, when everyone was asleep. Upstairs. No one knew it until it had eaten away at everything holding up the roof, and it caved in. Smoke poured into our floor after that, but no one knew it then, either. They were already dead.
And here I am, because it missed me. I should be running. I should be telling people what happened, or looking for the bodies.
Maybe someone is still alive, like me, but there’s no use in searching. I know that they’re dead, because I can feel their candle souls, all snuffed out.
So I’m laying here, and it reminds me of snow. So cold it’s hot, ashes falling on my tongue. They taste like smoke. It all smells just like our winter bonfire. Wood, ashes, and smoke. If I close my eyes, it’s just the same.
It’s so quiet out here.
Soon the firetrucks will come and take me, and the people outside will get brave. But for now it’s winter, and everyone here is inside with tea and blankets. My father’s grilling, and my mother’s gathering some sticks from the woods to feed our fire. They’ve just left me alone for a while.
I’ll open my eyes in a little bit, but I’m not ready yet. In my dream, I’m making snow angels. To join all the others.
The roof isn’t done falling. I hear pieces, tree branches heavy with snow, crashing down, all over the house. The house is smashing everything to bits. My breath is smoke in the frozen air.
It isn’t just snow anymore. There’s dust too, gritty little pieces of plywood on my face. There’s creaking and snapping above me.
And I know it’s falling, breaking the ice that always covered the pond in the backyard. Slowly, it’s sinking, sinking, and finding a place to lay on the bottom.
Snowy days are quiet out here. It’s so quiet out here.
