The Drunken Storytellings of a Madman.

Part 17

I picked up the mask on one of the breathing machines and inspected it. The mask itself was nothing special, but that wasn't what I was looking for. I had done enough observation and research in my lifetime to know that the breathing machine had a certain gas in it, one that was highly flammable.

After a few minutes of looking, I found a small tank positioned inside the machine, cylindrical in shape like a large, empty water bottle. I smiled, this was how I was going to get someone's attention.

I unscrewed the bottle from the machine and keep my hand over the top, after a minute of inspecting the bottle, I murmured, "Flame Series: Flare." Not a very powerful spell, but enough to do the intended job.

It worked just as intended, the fire ignited the gas inside the bottle and combusted into a larger than intended explosion, which despite my best efforts, I could not contain.

The fire began to spread and due to still suffering from a beating within my brain, my concentration had been shattered, it became harder and harder to control the now problematic blaze.

Shit. I may have made a mistake.

I remember calling out for help again and again, realising that what I'd caused was suddenly an issue, one that I could not control, the next moments are somewhat of a blur, however I will try and tell you what I can vaguely remember.

My vision was obscured by the smog and smoke, my throat hoarse from begging for help, the indescribable feeling of defeat consuming my body. This wasn't how I was actually going to die, was it? I seriously wasn't about to burn to death due to my own stupidity, surely? Those were some of the questions that ran through my mind at the time as hopeless sank into my system.

But, of course, I have a story to finish. This was certainly not the end.