In the Eye of the Fire

When I walked through the open door I saw a fire was already lit in the fireplace. A musty-looking rug was draped over a frayed sofa, two empty, finger-smudged glasses and a fresh candle were on the table.

Something about fire has always fascinated me. My father, a fireman, taught me to fear it but I was always curious, much to his endless frustration. On a candle wick, fire is contained, though it dances persistently, trying to swim through the air to find something else to latch onto and expand its territory. Something so uncontrollable, controlled. Like the Self? I wondered, absentmindedly.

I knew someone was in the other room, though I didn’t know whose face to expect. I could picture them in my mind’s eye as a shadow, an outline, waiting to be filled in. I knew who I wanted to see but was too afraid to complete the image, in case in doing so I chased them away. Instead I stared at a faded painting of a daisy hanging on the wall, tracing its outline with on my leg with a rough finger, the invisible petals bumping over the scratches and mosquito bites on my skin.

The smell of the candle reached my nostrils and my brain scrabbled to identify the smell. Jasmine? Sandlewood? A floorboard creaked and I heard footsteps approaching. My heartbeat quickened and my hand flew instinctively, protectively, to the heart-shaped locket resting on my clammy skin as my chest rose and fell in judders that gave away my nerves.

“You found us.” She stated, not inviting a response. Without smiling, she gestured to the sofa. I hesitated, wondering why we were alone. Where were the others? She folded her arms, eyes looking steadily at me, seeming almost orange in this light. I came forward and sat down, not knowing where to put my limbs which felt heavy and awkward.

“You are alone.” Not a question, but a statement. I nodded. My tongue seemed to take up my entire mouth, dry and unsure. “Why are you here?” She asked. This time, a question, though I felt she knew the answer already.

My father had helped design the fire-proof bunkers that were built to protect a select number of people deemed important or necessary for The Reconstruction and thus had his place reserved. However, pushing seventy when the sirens finally went off, he had given up his space for me. My mother always used to say I was lucky, an observation my sister resented. I wonder if she could resent me from beyond the grave, if her body were even in such a thing. I pushed the thought from my mind – it could keep me awake at night but for now I had to be present.

“I heard-” I began, trying to swallow. “Is there water?” I asked meekly, my eyes darting to the glasses, feeling unworthy to ask such a thing before I had even explained myself. She considered me gravely then reached forward, tapping the glass impatiently with two brown fingers. The glass was now half full. My breath caught in my throat. So the rumours were true. I felt a surge of hope in my heart but she seemed to sense this and cut me off before words could come tumbling out of my mouth. “Don’t get excited.” She said, bluntly, wearily. “We are not going to save the world.”

I was confused. “But the disaster gave you the Powers,” I protested, practically a whisper. “And you don’t support The Reconstruction…” She sighed and I felt a burden, wanting to apologise for existing, for being allowed to survive. “That is correct.” After a pause, she asked me again: “Why are you here?”

My heart thumped in my head, my chest, my ears. “I know I was lucky to be granted protection… but if you only knew the things I’d heard, the things I know…” I trailed off. “I would rather be dead than help them.”

She regarded me carefully. “You may get your wish by coming here, you know…” she responded, though her voice was softer and her body seemed to relax. She came and perched on the edge of the table in front of me, her eyes closed, her hands as if in prayer, covering her mouth. My eyes couldn’t keep from darting back and forth to the candle flame flickering dangerously close to the hem of her shirt. As if sensing my distraction, she waved a hand vaguely and the candle went out, a trail of black smoke snaking up into the heavy air. She opened her eyes.

Finding the courage that had got me here in the first place, I looked her in the face and said firmly: “I don’t want your help. I’m here to help you.”