That morning, I awoke early to the undeniable smell of smoke.
I jumped out of my bed, sending the linens upon it tumbling to the carpeted floor in a heap. I thought about picking them up, but the gray air clogged my otherwise clear thoughts. So I simply ran.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I sprinted down our staircase, taking the steps two at a time. I had to get downstairs, not to save myself, but to save my siblings. My feet slipped on the carpeted staircase, and I fell two steps down, leaving me at the bottom of the staircase. The smoke was more dense there, and even as I covered my face with my nightcap, I could hardly breathe. Gasping for air, I stumbled to the room that my brother and sister shared and threw open the door.
"Oh!" I screamed in shock.
The room was ablaze.
Orange flames engulfed the nightstand. The drawing paper scattered across it was nothing but pencil-colored ash. The window above was blackened with soot, blocking the stars we had all come to know and love. Bursting into the room, I sprinted through the the flames, not caring about the soot that was quickly swallowing my white nightgown. I grabbed my siblings in rush, not even bothering to rouse the, for if I did, we would all be dead. I turned around, to go to the door, I believe. But it would be of no use.
The door was already covered in flames.
At this point, I was approached an ultimatum. I could try to use the flaming door, and risk my life going through it. Or, I could take my chances and jump out the window, which would also involve me putting my life on the line. And I did not have hours upon hours to decide. It was a fifty-fifty shot. A heads or tails chance.
So, without further thought, I launched myself and my siblings out the window.
And we lived.
YOU ARE READING
The Safe House
أدب تاريخيBefore: 13 year old Margret Surges hates reading, writing, or basically anything that requires her to sit still. She believes in what she can see, and nothing beyond that. After: Nothing is as it seems
