After the Fire

I don’t feel like I’m walking into a home, let alone my home. I try to keep my breathing steady, but I keep faltering. A month today. January still finds ways to prove it’s the bleakest month of the year.

I feel like an intruder.

The banner of a blue and white police tape surrounds each corner of the house. I want to scream. Strangers have been inside searching for an explanation. It was an accident — I’m sure of it. I lift the tape over my head and open the front door. There’s paper strewn all over the hallway. The carpet is burned black. There’s a wretched smell so strong I can taste it. I want to throw up.

I shudder as I approach the kitchen. This is where it started. We’re not a modern family, so we still have a gas hob. Correction. We had a gas hob. We were a family. A simple gas leak and everything turns to the past tense.

The kitchen door was obliterated by the explosion so I just walk through. I don’t know what to feel. Mainly emptiness, a careless act lost more than just my home. I stare at blackened tiles and a broken table. I turn away and head upstairs.

When we were at the police station I was told to be careful in the house in case I fall or break something. I said, “Everything is broken, what more damage could I do?” The police only care about evidence.

On the landing, streaks of black reach the ceiling and blanket my house with a pall. In light of it all, there is still some colour on the walls. Lucky the fire rescue team got here so quickly, I still get to walk through these rooms.

I enter my room. It looks untouched, but I can tell forensics in those balloon suits and blue plastic feet have been here, rifling through my things.

I’m hesitant when approaching my poor El’s room. I can remember his limp body, rescued from the flames, silenced by the evil carbon monoxide fumes. My heart thumps, banging against my ribcage. I don’t know why I laugh when I walk in.

His room is disturbingly normal, bar some ash and the broken window, it looks the same. His ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’ toys and bedding are all a mess on the floor.

On the windowsill, I spot the little orange letter block ‘E’. He wanted it for Christmas to be like his big sister: I have an ‘L’ in my room. I pick it up and open the battery compartment. It’s quite funny to think that you can hide something in plain sight, even when professionals have been snooping around.

There it is. I unfold the parchment hidden under the batteries. My plan in all its glory. It was simple: get rid of everything. My mum called the fire brigade as soon as she realised gas was leaking. Bitch. I had to revert to plan B and set the house alight as quick as possible.

So I threw the match at the cooker from outside and ran.

I wanted to teach them a lesson. I was ignored, shunned and scapegoated. So I thought it was time to prove that I could cook up a storm. Well, more like an explosion. It worked. Such a shame the whole building didn’t collapse.

Do you think I feel regret? Absolutely not! That’s the price to pay for ignorance.

As the old saying goes, ‘It’s the quiet ones you have to worry about’.

This story was based on a picture prompt which I did for a writing competition. Subsequently, I received a ‘commended’ award in my age category.

I hope you like this dark little story!

– Henna