Page 11 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Instead, I lay in the dark as I wait—a long, long time—for sleep to come.
But when I jerk awake what feels like minutes later, it’s not to sunlight pouring into my bedroom, morning having come to draw me out of my slumber.
It’s bright, yes.
And warm—uncomfortably so.
I sit up on a gasp…and then immediately start choking.
On smoke.
Because flames are licking up the walls of my bedroom.
For once, I’m glad I’m by myself, that I’m the only one in this danger. But that thought flits through my mind and out of it in a flash. Because that quickly, the heat is overbearing and the smoke is burning my eyes and lungs and…
I realize I’m in danger.
Danger that is far, far more serious than laundry-basket-induced death.
Move, Faye!
I throw the covers back, drop to the floor, start crawling for the hallway, coughing harder and harder with each foot I progress.
There’s more smoke?—
No. There’s too much smoke.
But I have to make it downstairs, have to get outside where there will be fresh air.
I pull my tank top up, covering my mouth, getting a bit of relief from the smoke, and keep crawling.
Heat ripples through the air, seeming to scorch my skin, but I don’t stop.
I know I can’t stop.
Then I’m in the hall, turning to the right, squinting in the flickering darkness for the stairs?—
“Ow!” I cry out as I tumble headfirst down several steps, having found them in the least helpful way.
Falling.
Yeah, now I understand that would be a bad way to go.
My face hurts and my wrist is screaming but the smoke is getting thicker.
I can’t stop.
Not when it’s getting hotter by the second, hotter than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.
Not when it’s getting harder to breathe with each passing moment.
I keep half-crawling and half-falling down the stairs, not stopping until crash hard onto the landing. Then I roll to my side, searching for the front door and the freedom it will bring.
But I can’t see anything, not through the thick blanket of smoke.
Panic rises up, clawing at my insides.
Too hot.
