Insomnia and Other Short Stories

If Only

It started off like any other day. Chris got up and made breakfast for himself and Clara. They ate the fluffy pancakes together while Clara chatted away about her plans to play with her friends at school. Their Bull Terrier, Duke, ate the pancake Chris prepared for him.

Before he sent her to catch the bus, Chris kissed Clara's forehead, said, "I love you, sweetie. Have a good day."

If only he'd known what was about to happen. He would have gathered Clara in his arms, carried her to the car, and gotten her and Duke out of town.

But he didn't know what was coming, and so Chris handed Clara her lunch and sent her on her way.

She was wearing her white shirt with the cute black cat she loved so much. Later, it would seem like such a cruel irony.

Chris went to work. He poured himself coffee in the shared kitchen, made smalltalk with some of his coworkers, and then settled into his desk chair for a long day ahead.

An hour in, Chris was working his way through a bag of chips, knowing that it wouldn't help the gnawing sensation in his stomach but unable to think of a better method.

He soon had his answer.

Chris was not what one called a desensitized person. So when he heard a siren scream past the building, he looked up. Almost simultaneously, Marissa, in the cubicle next to Chris's, put down her phone. Her face was white.

The gnawing feel in his stomach got worse.

"Marissa, what is it?"

Around them, coworkers continued clicking away at their computers.

Marissa met his eyes, hers filled with fear only a parent could feel.

"There's a fire, heading for the school."

All of a sudden, Chris felt nothing. The world around him fell silent.

Clara.

Everything came back in a rush: the sound of murmuring, blood rushing in his ears, and Marissa's hand on his arm, tugging him out of his panic.

He couldn't say exactly how they got to the school, too focused on his need to find Clara. Was she safe? Was she––

No. Just find her.

They got to the school. If Chris had bothered to pay attention to his surroundings, he would have seen the red fire licking its way along the walls of the school. He would have seen it rising through the roof as the inferno sought to burn the school down to nothing.

But Chris only saw danger; and it was trying to take Clara from him.

He charged forward, vaguely aware of hands trying to grasp at his shoulders.

"Chris––" said Marissa.

"Sir, I can't let you––" a man in red began.

Chris body checked him without a second thought, his vision tunneled in on a whole in the school's wall. His path to Clara.

He ran. Faster than he ever had in his life, Chris ran.

"Clara!" he shouted as he burst through the whole.

He looked around wildly.

Red. Heat. A flare of pain in his arm.

"Dad!"

Chris whipped toward the direction of the voice, flames crackling around him.

"Clara, where are you!"

He stumbled forward, sweat pouring down his face, into his eyes.

"Dad, I'm here!"

Skirting around some debris, Chris's eyes zeroed on a door at the end of the hallway, three doors down. Fire consumed it, trapping Clara inside.

His legs carried him forward, all of his focus on that door.

"Don't worry, honey, I'm––"

A crack.

Chris didn't even have time to look up before the ceiling collapsed on top of him.

***

Clara was gone.

Yet, somehow, Chris wasn't. Somehow, he still stumbled around, not unlike a zombie, through what was left of Summerville. He drew in breath after agonized breath, the portrait of Clara as a toddler clutched in his right hand.

Duke sniffed the ground alongside him, having found Chris hours ago. His red collar was blackened from when he'd helped drag Chris from the wreckage of the school. Thankfully, though his white coat was covered with soot, he was unharmed.

If he was being honest, Duke was the only reason Chris hadn't laid down and given up by now. Though he'd evaded being evacuated, half convinced he could still save Clara, Chris now rested a hand on Duke's drooping head.

"We'll find someplace safe soon, buddy," he said. "Just keep going."

Duke just whined low in his throat. He, too, knew his girl was gone.

Chris's arm ached from the burn he'd received, the skin exposed to the chill air. Around him, small fires still burned, one finishing off the remains of someone's house. It'd all happened so fast. It––

Before Chris processed what was happening, Duke's head perked up. With a low growl, he took off.

"Duke––buddy, wait," Chris said, dragging his damaged body after him.

Duke wasn't listening. He was digging at a pile of debris with a single-minded determination Chris had only seen when he dug holes in the backyard. Clara's mother, Zoe, had always hated that.

The realization washed over Chris like cold water. Before he knew it, he was on his knees beside Duke, clearing away the debris. His muscles protested, but Chris didn't stop, even as sweat poured down his face.

A soft whimper reached Chris's ears as he threw aside a piece of wood, hands black and damp. Chris looked into the face of a young girl, no older than Clara's ten years.

She stared at him with fearful brown eyes, cheeks streaked with tears. Part of her busy black hair was burned away. Almost comically, there was a black mark on the tip of her pert little nose.

Chris forced a smile. He couldn't save Clara, but he could at least save this girl.

As Duke started to lick the girl's face, eliciting a slight smile, Chris said, "Hey, there. I'm gonna get you out of here. Can you tell me your name?"

Tears filled the girl's eyes.

"Tori."