THE FORGOTTEN ONE
Flames are everywhere—violent tongues of orange and gold devouring the curtains, the couch, the very walls. Heat roars against my face, so intense that every breath sears my lungs. Smoke churns up toward the ceiling in thick, black plumes, and with each desperate gasp I taste bitter ash on my tongue.
I stagger backward, my heart hammering in my chest as I whirl around. The living room is an inferno. When did this happen? One moment everything was normal—I was normal—and now... now everything is fire. The roar of the blaze is deafening, but underneath it I hear something that freezes my blood more than the heat: a scream.
"Mom!" I scream, though my throat is raw from smoke. I see her then, near the kitchen doorway. She's on the floor, scrambling backward, her wide eyes fixed on the flames that dance across the rug and climb the doorframe. No, no, no... This can't be happening. The fire is between us, but I can still see her face—every line of terror, confusion, and pain.
She reaches a hand out toward me. I can see blistering already blooming angry and red along her forearm where the fire licked her. Her favorite yellow blouse has caught fire at the hem. She slaps at it frantically, choking on the smoke. My stomach turns at the smell—scorched cloth and something sickeningly sweet, like charred meat.
I lunge forward without thinking, desperate to reach her. I'm the one who caused this. I don't know how, but I know it to my core. This fire... it erupted from me. Just minutes ago I was crying in her arms, shattered by anger and hurt—then came the surge of heat inside me, a flash of light, and an explosion. Now our cozy home is a nightmare of flames because of me.
"Zalia, get back!" Mom's voice is shrill with panic and pain. She sees me trying to come to her through the inferno. The air between us ripples with heat, distorting her figure. I hesitate, torn between terror and the need to help her. My eyes sting, hot tears carving tracks through the soot on my cheeks.
A wooden beam—part of the ceiling—cracks above and crashes down, smashing our coffee table into sparks and embers. I yelp and shield my face. Splinters prick my arms. The whole house is groaning, wood popping as it's eaten away by an impossible fire that shouldn't exist. My fire.
Do something! I have to do something. Mom is trapped on the other side of this blazing barrier. She coughs harshly, trying to crawl toward me. The fire on her blouse is spreading up toward her shoulder. A sob of pure terror rips from my throat as I realize she's not going to make it out if I don't help.
Ignoring the flames that lick at my legs, I surge forward through the burning wreckage of our living room. Heat lashes at me from all sides, but strangely it doesn't bite as viciously into my skin as it should. I can feel the scorch, feel the sweat evaporating off my body, but it's like a part of me is resisting the worst of the burn. The flames almost seem to bend away from me, as if afraid.
I wish they were afraid of me. I wish I wasn't so afraid of them. My hands shake violently as I reach through the wall of heat. "Mom!" I cry again. She's so close now—only a few feet away. She has collapsed onto her side, one arm over her face. Her hair, normally neatly pinned back for the evening, is now loose and disheveled, sticking to the sweat on her brow.
I can see the fear in her eyes even through the haze. She's afraid of me. The realization hits like a punch to the gut. Whether she knows this fire came from me or not, in this moment I'm the source of her terror. And I'm terrified too—of what I've done, of what I am.
"I'm sorry!" I sob, voice cracking. I don't even know if she can hear me over the roar. My vision tunnels as I push closer. I swat desperately at the flames crawling over the carpet, trying to clear a path. My hands bat at burning debris, and I barely feel the sting when flames cling to my skin. I beat them out frantically, only for more to spring up. It's useless—like trying to stop a tsunami with a cup.
Mom screams—a high, thin sound of agony that will haunt my nightmares forever. My eyes snap to her: the fire on her blouse has found new fuel. Hungry tongues of flame race up her shoulder to the ends of her long brown hair. In an instant, her hair catches fire like a torch.
"No! No, no, no!" A wail tears from my chest. I dive the last few feet to her, ripping off my own jacket and slamming it against her burning clothes and hair. The fabric of her blouse singes, blackens. I beat at it, sobbing, desperate. "Please stop, please!" I choke out, though whether I'm begging the fire or praying to any listening god, I don't know.
For a moment, it works—the flames on her are smothered under my jacket. Her hair stops burning, leaving charred, uneven locks against her neck. Her body spasms in pain, her breaths coming in ragged, wet gulps. I slide my arms under her, trying to pull her toward the front door, but she's too heavy and I am so weak with panic. We only manage a foot before she coughs and screams in pain at the movement. Her skin... oh God. Through the burned shred of her blouse I see raw, blistered flesh. I jerk back, horrified at the damage I've caused to the person I love most in this world.
"I'm sorry," I whimper, cradling her as gently as I can. My hands are shaking uncontrollably. I don't know where to touch her that isn't hurt. Everything is charred and blistered. She trembles in my arms and I feel her hand clutch weakly at my sleeve.
Her eyes find mine, glassy with pain. "Z-Zalia..." she croaks. Just my name, barely a breath, but full of hurt and confusion. It breaks something inside me.
"I'm here, Mom. I'm here," I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers without thinking, my tears dripping onto her scorched skin. The smell of burnt hair and flesh is overwhelming up close, and I gag even as I hold her. The world around us is collapsing—bookshelves toppling, glass shattering from the heat, the roar of the fire consuming everything we owned. But all I can focus on is her face contorted in pain, and the fading light in her eyes.
She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but then a violent coughing fit overtakes her. Each cough splatters blood on her lips—dark and red against the soot on her face. I scream for help, a raw, animal sound. "Somebody! Help! Please!" My voice cracks, but there's no one to hear.
The fire answers me with a thunderous crash somewhere behind. The house is coming down. We don't have much time. I have to get her out. If I can just get her outside, someone will help us. I try to stand, dragging her with me inch by inch, but my legs buckle. The heat is too intense; black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I'm not strong enough.
This is my fault. I did this to her. A sob shudders through me. If we die here, it's because of me. Because I couldn't control... whatever this is inside me.
My head spins. I'm losing it. The smoke is filling my lungs, stealing what little strength I had left. Mom has gone limp now, her body mercifully succumbing to unconsciousness—or worse. No, she can't be... She can't. I won't let her die.
"Mom," I rasp, shaking her gently. Her head lolls to the side, eyes shut. I feel for a pulse at her neck with trembling fingers and sob in relief at the faint thrum that answers. Alive. She's still alive.
I have to save her. Summoning every ounce of will, I half drag, half carry her toward where the front door used to be. Flames bite at my clothes. I feel my hair singeing, but I grit my teeth and push forward. The doorway is just ahead, beyond a curtain of fire.
The heat pushes me back like an invisible wall. My vision blurs and I realize I'm crying harder than I ever have, each sob scalding my throat. I clutch my mother—my world— to my chest and scream in rage and despair. The scream rips out of me like it too is made of fire.
And the flames respond. For one impossible moment, the inferno swirls, flickering as if caught in a sudden gale. The wall of fire at the door splits, embers twirling upward as a narrow, clear path opens to the night beyond. It's as if the fire itself flinched at my cry.
I don't understand how, but I don't have time to question it. Sucking in a final breath, I lunge through that brief gap with my mother in my arms. A torrent of heat singes my back as the flames surge closed behind us, but we're through. We tumble out onto the grass of our front yard, under the cool shock of night air.
I collapse to my knees, still holding Mom. The sky is spinning. Distantly, I hear shouting—neighbors, drawn by the firelight and noise. The entire house is ablaze now, an orange beacon against the darkness. Someone is yelling for water, for an ambulance. None of it feels real.
All I can do is stare at Mom's face. Her eyes are shut, her body limp. She isn't moving. "Mom?" I croak softly. I smooth a strand of singed hair from her face. Her skin is so pale beneath the soot. Too pale.
She's not breathing. Oh God—she's not breathing!
A keening sound builds in my chest. "No, no, no... Mom, please!" I lay her down on the cool grass and shakily press my ear to her chest. Nothing. Or maybe I can't hear over the blood rushing in my ears. My hands hover uselessly above her—I don't know what to do. I should do CPR, something—I can't think straight. My hands are slick with something warm and I realize it's her blood. There's blood everywhere.
My vision swims. Neighbors are arriving now—I glimpse Mr. Halsey from next door, his face a mask of horror and shock illuminated by the inferno that was our home. Strong arms try to pull me away from Mom, but I scream and cling to her. Someone else is checking her, trying to do what I should be doing. I can't let go.
"She's my mom! Don't touch her!" I shriek, my voice ripping from my throat in a ragged sob. I think I push someone—I don't even know who. Everything is chaos: the neighbors pleading with me, the fire truck sirens wailing in the distance, the heat on my back, the unbearable terror in my chest.
Two arms wrap around me from behind and pry me away despite my thrashing. "No! Mom!" I scream again, reaching out as she's pulled from my arms. I catch a final glimpse of her face in the flickering light. So still. Too still.
I did this.
I'm dimly aware of being carried farther from the burning house, of cool night air on my scorched skin. I feel nothing but numb horror. My eyes are locked on the scene unfolding: neighbors and now firefighters surrounding my mother's motionless form, obscuring her from view. They shout things I can't make out.
I want to run to her. I want to beg her to be okay. But I can't move. I can barely breathe. There's a taste like copper in my mouth and I realize I'm biting my tongue hard enough to bleed.
Someone is sobbing over and over, a horrible, broken sound. It's me.
A hand is on my shoulder—maybe a neighbor, maybe a paramedic, I don't know. I flinch away, curling in on myself on the cold grass. My body shakes with shock and exhaustion, and I dimly notice that the ground around me is charred black where I sit. The fire still obeys my anguish, burning where I touch even now. I scramble away from that blackened patch, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.
This can't be real. It can't be real. But the scorched earth and the screams and the acrid stench filling the night say otherwise. It's real. I did this. I hurt her.
Through the blur of tears, I watch the firefighters lift my mother onto a stretcher. They are performing CPR as they rush her to the ambulance—compressing her chest again and again. Her arm hangs limply off the side, swinging with each jolt. On her wrist I see the charm bracelet I gave her last birthday, now blackened with soot.
I reach out a hand toward her, but she's too far away. I'm too far away, in every way that matters. I can't reach her. I can never take back what I've done.
As the ambulance doors slam shut, a crushing darkness closes in around me. The last thing I remember is the taste of smoke and salt tears on my tongue, and a silent prayer on my lips.
I'm sorry... I'm so sorry.
