Housefire

Her hair was the color of the house fire, and I think that’s why I chose to stand beside her. There is something about symmetry that attracts the human brain, and subconsciously it must have drawn me. There’s also something about tragedy and devastation that draws a crowd. She didn’t stand out otherwise. Her peacoat was charcoal, and her scarf was a riot of color against the dark grey. It looked so soft. She was warm and comfortable, and you can’t help but seek that out in a situation where someone’s life is literally up in smoke.

“Did you know them?” I asked, the question a soft alert to my presence.

The flames reflected in her eyes as she slowly shook her head, her fingertips toying with a silver heart-shaped locket. “Not anymore.”

I shifted my own gaze back to the house being slowly swallowed by the fire. They said it was a grease fire, and the fighters were loathe to water it down. The chief had called, “Just let her burn out!”, and those in fluorescent vests joined their police cousins in service to keep the onlookers at a safe distance. They kept trying to shoo us away, but we were stubborn houseflies drawn to the drama. The tragedy. That tangible proof that someone else was having a far worse day than we were. Some in the crowd were praying. Some were crying. And some, like us, were just witnessing and contemplating.

“Did anyone die?” This was asked by our neighbor, her voice and expression one of anxiety. Her eyes reflected the fire too, but they were dark, big, and scared. The flames seemed to swallow them up too.

“Not really,” said the girl with red hair. Her expression didn’t change, but her voice was thoughtful.

I blinked. The Questioner blinked. I don’t think the girl with red hair ever blinked. The flames flickered, roared, and devoured the house vigorously. Getting clarification seemed blasphemous somehow. Did I even hear her right? There were so much murmuring and shuffling from the crowd. It was easier to consider a hearing deficit then wonder what the hell her statement meant.

“I don’t understand?” The Questioner frowned.

“I think they died young.” This time the girl with red hair’s eyes fell down, focusing on her necklace. Her cheeks were warm from the fire. Even from this distance we could feel the heat.

The Questioner and I exchanged a look that asked, ‘Are we in a ghost story?’. You always think you know what you’ll do in a moment of horror, but at that moment I just wanted to find someone else to stand next to. Her coat and scarf had lied. Her red hair hadn’t. I was frozen in place, and fought against manners and comfort. The Questioner had her anxiety as a companion and a champion. Curiosity kept us both in her thrall.

“I don’t understand.” Said the Questioner, though she didn’t sound like she wanted to.

“Me neither.” Said the girl with red hair, eyes lifting to the contained inferno. “Don’t think I ever will. Neither will they.”

My discomfort gave me the ability to shift my weight, and I took a step away from this person who wasn’t saying the right things in this situation. She was off script. The crowd was supposed to be a place of safety, and our small talk was supposed to give us the reassurances we needed while witnessing this tragedy. We could even feel comforted by the fact that none of us knew what was happening. She wasn’t following the unspoken rules, but I couldn’t tell you what the rules were. I didn’t make a habit of watching housefires. I’d just stumbled upon this one.

There was unrest behind me, and the raised voices and movement in my peripheral vision caused me to look over my left shoulder. The police were pushing through the crowd, dark uniforms showing that their intention had nothing to do with diffusing the situation. Their radios must have been at full volume because the sharp notes of static and filtered voices made me feel less secure than I had before.

“There she is. Ma’am, please stay were you are. We have a warrant to escort you back to the…”

Everything faded away, because at that moment the girl with red hair met my eyes. They were grey, like her coat, and like the smoke, and though she had turned away from the house, I still saw fire burning within them. She smiled, and the locket seemed to glow.

Our connection was severed as she jerked forward, pushed roughly by one of the officers. She didn’t resist, nor look back, just went with the force toward the spinning lights of red and blue.