Page 1 of Secrets Unveiled

SAGE

SEVEN YEARS AGO

It’s so hot.

The flames are climbing higher up the staircase. I fear this is the end for me. I’m screaming out for my father, but the sounds of the raging fire overwhelm my ears. The flames are growing by the second.

It’s so hot.

It sounds like a train rumbling down the tracks, out of control. It’s painfully loud. My skin feels as though it’s starting to melt. I’m stuck on the third floor; the stairs are completely engulfed in thick black smoke, making it impossible to see. My screams have faded into coughs as I feel my lungs constricting within me. Invisible hands are squeezing my esophagus. I try to force myself to swallow, but I can’t. My chest is tight, and trying to suck in even the slightest bit of oxygen seems impossible.

“Help, someone, please!” My cries appear pointless since I haven’t seen or heard anyone. I remember waking up—today is my fourteenth birthday—and being overrun with billows of smoke seeping beneath my door. Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and race to the door. Opening my bedroom door, I’m hit with a wall of heat that’s so intense I can hardly open my eyes.

“Dad?” I call out, but I’m met with no response. Panic quickly consumes me, as does the smoke. I drop to my knees, trying to get below the black clouds. This is where I realize I won’t be getting to the main level by way of the stairs. A blanket of black smoke conceals the staircase that I know is there but can no longer see. There’s no other way out. How am I going to get out of here?

I run back to my room and straight to the balcony, swinging open the French doors. Instantly, I inhale a breath of fresh air. The sun has barely begun to rise. The sky is a pinkish hue as smoke crawls through my room and out the balcony, like I’ve just opened a vacuum to the outside world. The sky is beautiful, the colors dancing together as the warm summer breeze hits my face, blowing my messy blonde hair back. The forest below me is quiet.

It’s beautifully quiet.

The leaves are rustling, and the branches are shaking just enough to make the faintest noise of cracking as they bend with the wind. As the sky touches the earth, the colors shift from pinks and oranges to vibrant greens as they collide against each other. It’s beautiful, breathtaking even. If I die, at least this will be the last image I see.

Just then, the sound of glass breaking from the heat of the fire startles me from my trance. Turning to see the flames have now reached the third floor, tears begin welling behind my eyes. Closing them, I move until my back hits the railing and instantly think of my older brother. He’s safe; he isn’t home. He’s been at his friend’s house since last night. Saxon is safe with his best friend, Saint. They’re probably still sleeping off the alcohol they drank last night, no doubt. A meek smile forms across my tear-stricken face.

I slide my body down the railing until I’m sitting on the tile floor, hugging my knees to my chest and resting my head over my forearms. Curled up in this ball, I start to feel lightheaded as the smoke in my lungs starts to feel heavier and heavier. Lifting my head and opening my eyes, I realize my vision is becoming blurry. I try to blink away the haze, but no matter how many times I do, my vision remains the same.

Objects that were clear to me with hard outlines look to be shifting into softer blurs of colors. I can no longer identify my bed, or anything from my dresser to the doorframe. I give up, no longer wanting to try anymore, and close my eyes as my head falls back to the railing with a hard thud. This is it for me. What a way to go out.

My eyes still closed; I hear a loud noise that sounds like a bomb going off. I snap my eyes open, but still, I can’t see much, just blobs of furniture I know are there. Something is moving, and it’s moving toward me.

“Sage, stay awake. Stay with me. I’ve got you,” a voice says as my body is lifted from the cool tile floor. I’m instantly cold as whoever is lifting me presses my body to theirs. Droplets of water hit my face. The sudden shock of going from hot to cold is soothing. Their body is completely saturated in cold water. I can’t move. I feel utterly paralyzed as I float through the air and back into my room.

The air is hot again, and I want to protest and go back to my balcony, but I can’t. My brain is no longer allowing me to communicate what I want. Just then, a cold blanket, or towel, has been thrown over my body, shocking my system. God, it feels so good.

“You’re going to be fine, Sage. I’m getting you out of here,” the man’s voice says as he continues to carry me through the house. Waves of heat hit me as we pick up pace, and I feel the familiar bobbing of stairs as our bodies move as one, taking each step one by one. How are we descending the stairs? Last I saw them, they were completely overrun by black smoke? Moans and grunts fill my ears as whoever is carrying me races us through the house. Who is this man?

I can’t breathe anymore; the smoke is too much. Just when I think I’ve taken my last breath, a wall of fresh air makes its way into my lungs as something is placed over my nose and mouth. The clean air is forced down my throat and through my nose, making it so easy to breathe. I’m doing minimal work as the oxygen is filling my body, allowing my lungs to inflate with the good and release the bad.

“Is she going to make it?” I hear the man breathe heavily. My eyes are closed, but I want to see who’s talking. I try to peel my eyelids open, but I can’t. The heaviness is too much, and my exhaustion is taking over.

“You need to see the medic, son. Here, lay down,” another voice says.

“For Christ’s sake, tell me! Is she going to make it?!” the man yells loudly, but again, he receives no response. Am I going to die?

“I need another medic over here—this kid’s burned pretty bad!” There’s no more protest from the guy, just silence after the sound of doors closing and the rumble of pavement picking up beneath me. I let go then. I relax and allow the exhaustion to take over. I say to myself before I collapse, happy fucking birthday, Sage.

PRESENT

SAGE

“Frankie, how many times have I told you not to do the laundry?! You’re supposed to separate the lights from the darks! You can’t just throw everything in there together!” I scream to my uncle as he sits at the dining table, sipping his coffee and typing away at his computer.

“Calm down, witch stick. I was just trying to help. Now, stop doing the laundry—it’s your birthday, for fuck’s sake,” he bellows, not once lifting his head from this computer. I cringe at the nickname witch stick. My brother and his best friend made it up one day when they saw me lighting a sage stick in my room. I was reading a book that explained how if you light a sage stick in your room or house, it’s supposed to ward off all evil. I was ten and afraid of the dark at the time; little did I know the nickname witch stick would follow me around for the rest of my life.

Yes, today is my birthday. My fucking birthday. The day I now have to share with the anniversary of my father’s death. The fire fighters determined the fire was caused by faulty wiring that ultimately caused our house to burn down completely. I don’t know how I made it out that day; I never found the person who retrieved me from my balcony. The fire fighters said I was carried out by a man, or rather a “boy,” as they called him.

Still, a mystery of a boy, or an angel from above, felt as though I was worth saving that day, but not my father. He perished in his bedroom that morning, trapped and unable to escape through his window or bedroom door. This is where I have a problem thinking it was a fluke. How was his window and door so tightly secured that a grown man couldn’t force his way out? I begged the police to look into it further, but I was told it had already been declared an accident and to move on. My only parent was stolen from me that day, ripped from my life in the most brutal of ways.

I never knew my mother; she died soon after giving birth to me due to extensive amounts of blood loss. My father raised me and my older brother, Saxon, by himself. He was a strong man, a loyal man, a loving man. I miss him every day. Every fucking day.

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