This Was A Bad Idea

chapter 21 - shreds of smoke

I am a shred of consciousness splayed across a backdrop of smoke. I am an ember set adrift amongst a searing cacophony of screams. I see the flames snagging onto people's clothes, see flakes of skin burning, blistering. See the crush of a tunnel and the bodies writhing within it, trapped inside a fiery tomb. My eyes latch on faces that seem familiar, so familiar- even if I've never seen them before. Faces carved with fear, with agony.

Time distorts and stretches, like a broken kaleidoscope. It has been mere seconds. It has been long sob-drenched hours.

Eventually, there is nothing but the human torches on the ground. The teenagers that have succumbed to the lack of oxygen, and the ones that lost it to the flames. Scattered beer cans and half-melted lighters smear across the concrete like candy wrappers.

I have no body to latch onto. I am a shred of myself, an Orion shaped hole tearing across the sky.

All is quiet. Even the flames eventually burn themselves out. The dim glare of sunlight snags through the circular opening of the tunnel. Light pours in, illuminating swollen limbs and charred flesh. Faces half-fused to their skulls, skin like melted plastic.

My brain sears with agony, at the urge to snap myself away and shove my body back into reality. I'm faintly aware of my knees against the carpet, the tug of my shirt against my skin. But I can't. Not yet. I need to hold on.

I try to move, to push myself out of the tunnel. But I am rooted in one spot, like a camera bolted to the wall. A permanent fixture.

It is mid-morning. The quiet after the storm, the smooth evase of silence after a night drenched in screams.

I hear the sirens first. Then, see the reflection of lights blurring across that circular shaped wedge of sky. Red, blue. Red, blue.

People are stabilizing the entrance, then climbing down. Police officers, paramedics. I don't recognize any of them. I see the harsh glare of flashlights against the walls, then the ground, and the broken bodies half-fused to the floor.

The aftermath begins.

Time seems to blur. My point of view shifts, and I am outside. Standing out in the open air. Early-evening pools across the sky, red light searing the sun. Yellow caution tape stretches across the dry creek bed, searing it with panic.

There are bodies lined up near the entrance of the tunnel, each one swathed in opaque white plastic.

I count 27.

The air is drenched with the cries of parents, friends, family. People clutching at each other, faces a mask of agony. Their eyes are riveted towards the shrouded teenagers on the ground.

Snatches of old memories snap against the backdrop of my vision. Visions that came from different people, different eyes. They bloom against my skull in full color, saturated with pain.

Flames tugging at someone's jacket.

Candles set in front of a jagged length of fence in front of a football field. Posters zip-tied to the metal links, bearing photographs. Names. Ages.

A newspaper thudding against someone's porch. The elastic band snapping, the front page unfurling against the backdrop of a welcome mat.

November 2d, 1992.
Stoneridge Faces Tragedy As 27 Teenagers Die In Mysterious Fire.

I see headstones flicker like firelight. The shift of freshly overturned earth and the newly buried bodies that lay below.

Everything is rushing at me like the slam of a freight train. Like water pouring too fast down a clogged drain. I'm scrambling, faltering. Trying to get back.

Still images flash across my brain. Like snapshots from a broken camera lense. They tear at me like strobe lights, pulsing against my skull too fast for me to fully grasp.

A fence drilled into stone a wall and the sharpie-scribbled locks latched onto it.

Hooded figures illuminated by the soft glow of firelight.

Blood slashed across the floor.

A body thrown onto a pyre, back arched in a silent scream.

Heads bent in mourning.

Pain lashed across the grieving faces of parents. Siblings. Friends.

Symbols etched against stone walls.

Then all of a sudden, everything slows. Like I am falling, sinking into cold water. I see a girl curled on the ground. Dark skin ashen, bones pulsing against sunken flesh. Eyes closed. Green jacket smudged with dirt, clothes stained with sweat. Her fingers are curled against empty air.

Sam.

I feel the scream against my throat, scratching at my lungs. I can't hold it in any longer. I am straining, scrambling, trying to reach for the girl splayed against the concrete. Pain stabs against each inch of my skin like I've been drenched in acid.

There is a blinding flash of darkness as the scene melts away.

No. No!

Something cold slams against my face, wetness soaking into my shirt, into the carpet below me. My vision blurs and I can suddenly feel the ache of my skin, the burn of tears against my face. I saw her, saw Sam-

"Orion?" Xen, her voice muted, pulsing against the edges of my skull. "Come on, you have to wake up!"

I feel air flood my lungs and I am curled up on the floor of my bedroom, gasping for breath, coughing. Light floods against my irises, I'm staring up at the ceiling and the glare of light pulsing from it.

"Holy shit! Are you okay? Hey Orion,are you back?"

"Hello?" my voice feels grated and rough. "Xen?"

I feel their arms encircling me, a hug wrapped against my skin. The low choke of a suppressed sob hisses from her lips.

"You stopped breathing," They exclaim. "I- I thought you weren't going to come back. I was about to get your Dad"

"I'm okay," I laugh weakly. I push myself upwards, the world finally coming back into focus. My heartbeat slams against the wall of my chest. I'm here. I'm okay.

"What did you see?" Xen murmurs.

I feel my entire body heave as the word tears loose from my lips.

"Sam."