Page 21 of Stalker's Toy

I leap.

Air whistles past my ears.

Fishnets tear on jagged debris.

Impact judders through soles, up shins, rattling molars.

I’m running before the pain registers—toward the distant rectangle of night air.

Mom’s silhouette materializes in the doorway, backlit by street lamps.

Her outstretched hand wavers through heat distortion.

“Almost there!” The promise shreds her throat raw.

Fire claims the foyer walls.

The ceiling detonates.

White-hot agony razors across my cheek.

I’m airborne, then skidding across what’s left of the porch.

Concrete drinks blood from my split lip.

Through ringing ears comes a sound worse than flames—Mom’s keening wail, amputated mid-crescendo.

Smoke furls skyward, blotting out stars.

“Gotta get you out!” Dad hollers, rushing me toward the kitchen window.

He uses all of his strength to break it and forces me through, glass slicing my skin as I try to shimmy myself through.

My palms scrape concrete as I crawl outside, finding safety on the sidewalk.

Neighbors’ shouts arrive muffled, as though felt.

Someone drapes a blanket over my shaking shoulders.

It reeks of mothballs and normalcy.

“Anyone else inside?” A stranger’s face looms—firefighter’s mask reflecting a hellscape.

I try nodding.

My neck creaks. “Par…ents…”

Men in axes and oxygen tanks surge past.

The house groans—a death rattle trembling pavement.

The fire chief’s bark cuts through: “Back! Structuralintegrity’s gone!”

They’re arguing.

Always arguing.

I press scorched palms to ears as the explosion comes with no mercy.

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