Passing the Torch

III

The wailing sirens grow louder as they approach, making the singed hairs on my arms stand up as anticipation prickles beneath my skin. Strands of my hair blow against my face, tickling my nose and briefly reminding me of the life I was willingly leaving behind. No more fussing over which shampoos and leave-in conditioners were best suited for my hair, no more being embarrassed when the manicurist added the dull-pink nail polish to my nails that unintentionally blends with my natural skin tone, no more ordinary life for an ordinary girl.

But have I ever been an ordinary girl with an ordinary life, or was my urge to be normal greater than my reality? That question was too obvious to answer, and I would've chuckled at the ridiculousness of it at any other time.

Now as I walk farther from the cottage along the narrow trail-worn and barren from the years of traffic-I'm hit with a devastating realization ... I can still hear the agonizing screams.

No matter how much or how long I try to shut out the noise, I fail. Nothing helps, not a thought, a memory, not even the smell of burnt wood in the air can distract me from the noise. Each tactic eventually leads me right back to the screams.

I grab the wire of the makeshift fence with one hand, the fence my dad had built to separate our property from the rest of the desert. It didn't matter much. Our cottage was the only structure for many miles, built by Grandpa decades ago near a remote lake. Even so, erecting a fence and creating a yard may have been Dad's attempt at being normal too.

I look down at my hand and I know my fate is sealed when I spot the dirt caked under my once pink fingernails and the random spots of dark-brown blood on my knuckles that begin to coagulate and form scabs. Even the soil that is trapped within the tiny cotton fibers at the knees of my jeans confirms my doom.

By the time I thoroughly examine each fingernail in an absentminded attempt to mentally escape the flames, the smokes, and the occasional crackle and pop of wood, the fire truck arrives, escorted by a single police car. Each vehicle kicks up a thick trail of dust that seems to stretch out for miles.

It takes a few seconds to realize that I haven't been successful at shutting out the noise, but that the sirens have stopped even though the red and blue lights continue to flash. The handsome man steps out the police car; his slender frame and muscular build remind me of Dad.

I can't stop the tears. They flood my eyes and spill over the lids like an overflowing dam.

"Ma'am?" The officer steps forward, his voice deep and stern. "You alright, ma'am? Are you alone? Are you okay?"

I nod, hunched at the spine and unable to hold in my sobs.

What have I done?

There is no taking it back now. Not even fire can abolish the horror and pain I inflicted.

The officer examines me with his eyes as the firefighters prepare their hoses. "Need me to dispatch an ambulance?"

"No." I peer through the blurry stream of tears. "I-I'm okay." More words attempt to come out but get trapped in my aching throat, and for a split second I wonder if I'm really ready to come clean. That second passes all too quickly and the words spew out. "I've done something horrible."

"You set this fire, ma'am?" the officer asks, throwing his thumb back toward the crackles and pops behind him, the sounds my body reacts to with shudders and sudden jolts.

He needs to know. Someone needs to know. It is time. "I'm-" I sigh, a mixture of defeat and relief. "I'm a murderer."

So we have a confession . . . Like this chapter? Give it a vote. And if you haven't already, add Passing the Torch to your library and reading lists!