In the Middle of the Bed (A Saira Collings Story)

September 10, 2003 (Quentice's Story)

I should say that something broke inside of me as I moved to the other side of the bed to face my father.

After all, I was "daddy's little girl", so you would expect me to shed some tears for him like I had for Carson. But, no. The heat of the flames had dried my tears, and I felt no inclination to cry.

Quentice passed just like Mica, sinking through the mattress and floor. Til death do you part. And apparently not even then.

The hard part comes next: getting out of the house.

The dark demons are gone, though somehow I find my way through the flames. It feels as if a string is a attached to my navel, and is pulling me in the right directions to avoid debris and destroyed planks of wood and melting puddles of metal and plastic.

I hear several popping sounds from Mica's lab, and I know that the glass beakers and expensive equipment are getting destroyed.

All of her life's work: gone. Even her single living child is walking away from everything she's ever known, towards a life promising darkness and betrayal and blood.

For some reason, I feel the need to grab my phone from the kitchen as I pass it. Surprisingly, the phone is undamaged. I think nothing of this at the time, but later I'll realize that I had a new screensaver. A screensaver showing a burning house.

The night is turned to day as I walk outside.

The red-gold glow of the flames behind me light the street like daytime. People are outside, snapping pictures and talking on their phones.

I know, somehow, that none of them see me. I'm a ghost to them, just as my family and many others are ghosts to me.

I walk away from my house, my life, feeling nothing but a dark emptiness. A fire truck pulls up, its siren blaring, though my ears turn deaf to it; it's like thousands of cotton balls are stuck in my ears, blocking out any and all noise around me.

An ambulance pulls up behind the fire truck, its light flashing bright in my eyes. Blurry figures run towards me, and I know that these people see me.

As soon as a hand touches my shoulder, I crumple, my legs giving out. The medic catches me before I hit the ground, and I feel myself rise into the air, floating above everyone on the street, looking down on my childhood home turning to ash.

Not knowing what I'm doing, I raise my hand that swings behind the medic's back, and snap a picture of the burning house with my phone. My arm drags back to my chest, and rests there; the medic apparently doesn't notice this.

He lays me in the ambulance. I see his lips move, but I can't hear the words. My eyesight is blurring, whether from tears or fatigue or anguish, I don't know.

The medic seems to figure out that I can't hear him, as he gestures to his body, then mimes hurting himself.

I shake my head, and he nods. He says something to his associate, who starts moving around the ambulance, gathering supplies and doing other stuff I have no idea about.

The medic holds up his hand, five fingers spread wide, and points to himself, a confused look on his face. I shake my head again, understanding that he's asking how many others are in the house.

He looks troubled, and his brow creases as his lips pull into a frown.

"Only survivor. Everyone else is dead. Died of smoke inhalation. I got out. Only me," I say, my voice small and weak, nothing like my normal voice. Though then again, I hardly talked back then, being haunted by the deaths of others and all. But something told me that I would never speak again if this night kept going.