The Truth Hurts

82 │trapped

The blaze dances along the glass as the fire continues to spread onto the roof of the cabin. Taylor finds herself frozen, staring at the rising flames as she begins to picture the school bus flipped on its side. Slabs of flesh are embedded into its dented grill as its cracked windows steam up from the heat. A disfigured hand slams onto the front windshield, a man's agonizing screams echoing toward her as it smears blood against the glass before slowly dropping out of sight.

"Taylor!" Marc, sweating more from fear than the unbearable heat, grabs onto her shoulders as he pulls her away from the window. A wooden post on the front deck of the cabin collapses, the burning planks of wood crumbling into a pile as if it was part of a bonfire.

Still not fully in sync with her surroundings, she gazes around the room until she finds her eyes settling upon the fireplace. The sizzling corpse of what was once her best friend stares back at her and, although Millie's eyes are lifeless and glazed over with a thin pale cloud, Taylor can feel betrayal in her glare. She can feel the pain Millie must have suffered, not from her death but from the knife Taylor had thrust into her back years ago. As the guilt seeps in, her knees quickly begin to grow weak and she suspects that they will buckle at any moment. She grabs tightly onto the back of the loveseat, trying her best not to break down yet again, when she feels the floor slightly rattle beneath her feet.

Particles of dust and small chips of wood crumble onto her shoulder, drawing her attention to the ceiling above. Through the many deteriorating wood panels, she can see that the fire had already spread across half of the roof. She hears a sudden thud and turns her head to see Marc repeatedly ramming his shoulder into the door. The frame slightly rattles with each hit but it's no use. Even if he could somehow manage to get it open, the thick sheet of black smoke slipping in from underneath it suggests that it may not be the best option.

"Mar—" She coughs, covering her mouth as she quickly walks toward him. "Marc, what are we going to do?!"

Panting, he turns to look around the room she can see the tears filling his eyes as well. He tries his best not to focus at all on the body as he scans the room, looking for any possible exit. "There has to be a way out!"

Staring directly at him, she scrutinizes on all of the damage she had indirectly caused him. If it wasn't for her, he would have never found himself involved in this mess. He would probably be at home right now, writing away at some school article while Nash is curled up on the floor against his feet. And Millie... she would still be alive. Shit, if only she hadn't driven away that night—if only she had done the right thing and called the cops immediately after witnessing the horrid accident—a lot of people would still be alive.

Marc's eyes land on a small window above the sink and he reaches over to grab onto Taylor's hand, leading her toward the rear of the building. "This way!"

As the two approach the wall across from the entrance they can hear more of the porch collapsing, probably along with some of the shingles on the roof. Trying not to let it distract him, he grabs at the window to see that it is nailed to its sill like all of the others. With a clenched fist, he bangs heavily on the glass. "Shit!"

"Step back."

He turns around to see Taylor grabbing a wooden barstool by its legs from the corner of the room and quickly obliges. Closing her eyes, she lifts it upward and swings it into the window, the rounded seat sending shards of glass flying outside. She tosses the stool to the floor, covering her mouth again as she can feel her lungs fill up with even more smoke.

Coughing, Marc snatches a stained plate from the sink and uses the dish to chip away any loose fragments of glass from the sill. Once done, he tosses it aside and lifts Taylor up to help her through the window frame. She slides her legs out first until her entire body nearly sways from the window, surprised that her feet have yet to touch surface. She allows herself to slip out of Marc's grip and falls about two feet to the ground below.