How I ran away

How I fought fire

I don't know where the exit is. But I do know where the kitchen is. I play dirty. I never said I'd play fair. And I don't. At first sight the kitchen is empty. There is a doorway at the end that leads off to the dining room. The kitchen itself is big. The walls lined with cabinets, the floor pristine white. And then the refrigerator. It stands alone on the opposite wall. And it is giant. Three meters long, the silver doors reflect the cabinets. The cabinets are closest. I head to the nearest one. Open it. The refrigerator. I search the other cabinets. The whole kitchen is stocked with food to last years. There is a plate of cookies on the countertop. They are warm to the touch. I hesitantly take one and bite down. I am not so hesitant by the second-

And then a man walks in. He is dressed as a baker. White apron. Puffed hat. His eyes widen as he catches sight of me slobbering over cookies. I turn to run.

"Stop!" he screams. I stop and spin back around on my heel, lashing out with my foot. He moved to the side. I miss by his face by an inch. He scrambles back and gropes the countertop for something, anything. A weapon.

He grabs a baguette, three feet long. I reach and pick up the first thing my hand touches. The glass plate, the one the cookies are on. I pull it from the marble counter. The cookies tumble into a crumby mess on the floor between us. We both stare at it for a second. Then act.

I am faster at making the first move.

I hurtle the glass plate at full force. It flies like a Frisbee. He ducks. His face is safe. The same can't be said for his hat. It gets knocked off his head and crashes into the wall. The glass plate is in pieces.

He is across the kitchen from me, holding the baguette like a sword. I am weaponless. I take a step back. And then another one. Counting the cabinets I pass.

Second to last cabinet. I stop.

He runs up to me, wilding his baguette like a sword. I grab the bread and it rips apart at my pull. I swing my half at him. He deflects my attack with his half. I thrust it at him and he deflects it again. again and then he gets it at my throat. Before I can do anything. It's under my chin on my neck.

I lower my head and snap my teeth. The bread is soft and good under the hard crust. His eyes widen in surprise. He turns to get help.

I pull open the door and take out the jar of gumballs. A big glass jar. I don't bother with the lid. I throw it down to the ground. Crash! It's shattered and the gumballs are bouncing and running. He turns. Scrambling on gumballs.

"Argh!"

He crashes down. Slips and falls.

Shards of glass break his fall. Gumballs cushion his body. It looks like he will be out for a couple of hours.

The white floor is sparkling from broken glass, rainbow from gumballs. Red from blood.

I am careful where I step when I go back to a cabinet at the far side of the room. I know what is in it. I remember from when I searched them. I know where everything is. Things are about to become hot.

I get the gasoline. There's more than enough. I go back out into the hallway. To hell with keeping him alive. I came to a new resolve. Anyone who messes with me. Anyone who fights me. Kidnaps me. They die.

I count the doors to the room. when I am there, I peek in just to make sure it is the right one. Plain, impersonal, a guy on the floor. Yes, it's the right room.

I splash gasoline into the room and then close the door. I tip the bottle over the top of the door and watch the liquid drip and pile on the floor. I twirl around with it opened. Gasoline sprays all around me in a circle. Everywhere. I paint a trail leading back to the kitchen. Splashing the walls. Splattering the carpet.

I can't find a match. I take a rag-a piece ripped off from the cuffs of my jeans-and I go to the stove. The fire is small and it takes a few seconds for the rag to light. But it does. I cup my hands over the flame until it grows and the blue rag turns black.

My hands are protectively around the fire. I kick the door open. The fire is too big for me to hold. I hold it up and throw it down the hall.

Fire. Heat. It spreads so fast. I barely have time to run. The room is like a furnace. I wipe the sweat off my brow and run as fast as I can. The fire is fast at my heels. The end of the hallway looms closer. The hallway is burning. Smoke in the air. I didn't think this through.

I will die. It's hard to breath. The smoke spreads fast through the narrow strip. Fills my lungs. Can't breathe. Like the water just worse. Now my lungs are burning. Fire. I run. The fire doesn't reach me. but by now the wallpaper is in flames, spreading. I see paintings shrivel up and disappear into ash. Paintings that must cost thousands if not millions. I can end up like that.

The smoke is too strong. No oxygen to breathe. I am almost by the hall and already I am forced onto my knees to get fresh air.

Tears streak my blackened face. Just a few more feet and I will be out of the enclosed space. It is so hot.

I'm out. In the hall. I don't look back. Barely able to scramble to my feet and run. But I do. I run the way I know. Out back. Nobody stops me. He's dead. Twelve is dead. No way he could've lived that.

Smoke is on the ceiling. It lowers by the second. There is no doubt this mansion will burn to the ground. The fire didn't reach where I am yet. But it will. I run.

I am by the door.

I see it across the room. beyond the door is the garden. Where I will be free from the flames. Where there is clean air.

"Where do you think you're going?"

It's the baker. Battered and bloody.

And he looks angry.