Burnt toast. That's what happiness smells like when it burns. It smells like I forgot the bread in the oven and turned it into a black, crumbly mess. I know this because our house caught on fire when I was six, and the smell of burnt toast woke me up. The smoke was thick, and blue flames licked under my door. The color of the fire reminded me of the bioluminescent bacteria we saw at the beach earlier that night. Dad and I jumped as the waves lapped over the broken seashells and sand. Mom told us to be careful, but I still tripped and soaked myself from head to toe.
The report says I climbed out of the window. That is how I survived. I don't remember that. I remember a tiny little boy and girl in my room. The little girl had light hair that looked iridescent down her back. Her skin was pale, like her hair, but her eyes were the deepest blue. They glowed slightly. The little boy was the exact opposite. He was the same height. But his long hair was the color of dark holographic; he looked like he was holding galaxies within his hair. His skin was tanned with the sun's radiance. And his eyes, the color of starlight blue with splashes of gold.
The flames crept closer and closer to me as I sat in my bed and watched them dance over my toys, books, and clothes when the children appeared.
"Who are you? Where are you?" the little girl's voice tinkled like a bell. She was a ball of energy, even standing in place. "You're not supposed to be here yet," the little boy told me.
"Why is the fire blue?" I asked. Usually, I'd ask my dad; he was the most intelligent person I knew with his study of marine biology. I heard heavy footsteps on the other side of my door, and my name was called. My father's voice sounded muffled like he had something over his face.
The children looked at me and then looked at each other. Finally, they agreed on something because the little boy turned around and held out his hand.
"Take his hand." The little girl told me. "We're going to follow the leader. He will lead." That seemed like a fun game. Their hands were cool and refreshing when I took them, like when I jumped in the puddles the day after a big rainstorm holding my parents' hands. The little girl told me to close my eyes. And we started our game. As we got closer to my door, the heat from the flames seemed to disappear. I heard the creek of my door open, and it felt like I floated for a min before I listened to the door close behind me. Every once in a while, the little boy would stop and turn, or he'd ask me to jump, then walk straight again. The little girl and I would laugh when we bumped into each other. I didn't have any friends my age since my mom home-schooled me. And I thought we were getting closer to the dining room, but we turned and jumped so much I couldn't be sure. I kept my eyes closed the entire time, not wanting to ruin the game.
The shock of feeling the icy cold air under my nightgown and the grass between my toes made me open my eyes. I no longer held the hands of my friends; they had just disappeared. My house had burned, but the frame was still standing. Sirens in the distance were coming up the hill that our house stood on. I was whisked away in an ambulance and taken to a hospital. They said I inhaled smoke but was lucky. I don't feel so lucky now.
My house is on fire again; if those children had stayed, they'd watched a woman light a match.
YOU ARE READING
Stort Stories
Short Story(How I heald)- A short story about a girl who goes through the woods to find herself (If only they stayed)- A Short story about a girl who losses her parents in a fire with a twist.
