Floor Five

I’m at the end of a long hallway. A familiar one, but it’s different somehow. I don’t know what it is, but my stomach is spinning and my heart is racketing around in my ribcage. I take a cautious step forward, towards the exit.

PPPFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT.

The hiss of burning wood and carpet echoes loudly and the wall to my right is devoured in large, flickering bites, evaporating into a snake of dangerously dense smoke. It curls outward and upward, and as my eyes follow its path, I see the evening sky above me. Where the ceiling used to be, I can now see the sky, alit with the deep smoldering colors of a sunset.

The snake turns and focuses on me, a faceless yet living entity.

“Go in.” It hisses.

I wake, a tangled heap in the sheets, which are plastered to my skin with sweat and wrapped tightly around my legs. A corner of them has somehow knotted itself around my thigh.

Light is just beginning to drift into the room; hardly over the cusp of my east-facing window, and its copper glaze seeps over the foot of my bed. I glance to the mirror on the far wall and see my auburn hair, matted to the sides of my face; and glimmering with the heat in the room. I push it away from my cheeks to reveal my asymmetrical temples, one swollen and hard to the touch.

“Alena, are you up?” The gentle clip of my father’s footsteps on the hardwood floors is familiar and calming. My heart rate, which I hadn’t realized the alarming pace of, slows slightly.

“Yeah.” I say, weakly, patting the sides of my face to encourage blood flow.

My father takes one glance at my eyes and sighs. “Another nightmare?”

I shrug. I had been having nightmares every night since I had come home. Every morning I awoke the same: sweating, disoriented, so tense I could hear the angry fists at the front door.

But that hadn’t happened, yet.

How long would it take?

“Well, breakfast is ready. Your mother is online with her book club. I’ll be watching the game in the den.” My father’s mouth and eyebrows are crinkled in disdain and I avoid the penetrative stare he directs at me. “If you need us, we’re here. And maybe think about a walk today? The weather’s balmy.”

My father shuffles out of the room, and I flop backwards onto my damp sheets. A pang of guilt so intense I feel nauseous grasps my abdomen; and it feels like its rattling within me, rearranging my organs.

You did what you had to do.

And that’s what I’d done, right?

I rub the burning, itching sensations off of my skin with my shaky hands as I tremble to the bathroom, like always, and shower my dream away in an icy downpour. I step out shivering, but I can still feel the paralyzing heat across my face.

A spell of dizziness leaves me grasping the ceramic sink frantically.

You did what you had to do. You did what you had to do. You did what you had to do.

The spell fades away and I straighten, forcing my mind to go blank, silent, numb. I touch my temple gently.

The girl in the mirror looking at me seems angry. Her cobalt eyes churn like a whirlpool vanishing into a drain, and her hair is matted and tangled. Her cheeks are burning red and irritated, with tiny scratches on her cheeks from her half-bitten fingernails.

I don't dare look beneath the towel.

I’m only two steps out of my room, freshly changed, when I hear the sound of the doorbell ringing. I shriek and hit the floor. My heart is pounding. It’s them.

I’ve been rubbing the wooden pegs together in my jacket pocket so viciously that my fingers have splinters, but I haven’t noticed. I’ve only been watching the building, my face likely plastered with remorse for actions to come. I was supposed to just flick them and run, but I can’t. It’s too busy. There’s too many people going in and out – no, someone would see me. I should sit down here, on this bench, so I’m less suspicious. Maybe I should smoke? No. Then I’ll stall until the pack is gone. Maybe I should come back here when its dark?

My phone rings in my pocket.

“Hey.” I croak out, my voice raw.

“Can you hurry up? I’ve been sitting here forever. People are gonna start to get suspicious.”

“I know.”

I hear Peter drum his fingers on the steering wheel anxiously as he exhales loudly into the phone. “Just forget it, Ley.”

He hangs up before I can protest.

“Alena.” My mother is crouched over me, her concerned voice bouncing off of my shaking form.

My fingertips press deeply into my scalp, pressing as if trying to dig within my skull, to extract the memory of it all. I look up into my mother’s stare and a whimper falls dead in my throat.

You did what you had to do. You did what you had to do. You did what you had to do.

I don’t realize the tears are there until my mother sits on the floor and strokes them away gently with her thumbs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” She soothes, and her affection only makes it worse.

How would she look at me if she knew I was a killer?

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” I respond, brusquely, weakly. I push her away. “I’m fine.”

It was no more convincing that time than it had been any of the times before.

“C’mon.” My mother coaxes. “Let’s get you something to eat. You’ll feel better.” She leads me towards the kitchen.

My father is waiting for me there, sitting at the table across from a stack of home-cooked breakfast food. Food I used to love, but can’t imagine stomaching now.

My mother passes me a damp cloth for my face and hands before sitting down beside me.

“Alena.” My father starts, and his firm voice is kind, but intimidating.

“You know we’re worried about you.” My mother interjects, in her sugary, level way.

I don’t know which is worse.

“I’m fine.” I repeat again, as though I’ve forgotten all the other words I know.

“You should see someone.” My father says.

“There are people – professional people – who can help you. Even virtually - you don’t have to even leave your room.” My mother pleads.

“I’ve just got jitters, that’s normal considering the circumstances. I watched my home burn down.” I fight, weakly. I don’t even believe the words I’m saying enough to make my voice sound like my own.

“Alena, it’s been almost two months!” My mother protests. And she’s right.

It’s been almost two months since it all happened, since the consuming anxiety had filled my lungs; constantly threatening to spill over with any turbulence. Two months since the nightmares started.

Two months since I was called in for questioning, because they found the source of the burn – and two matches covered in my DNA discarded in the smoking area outside the building.

Two months since I had seen the little girl in the window, and then on Channel 9. Even though she wasn’t seen outside of that building again.

You did what you had to do. You –

“Alena!” My father snaps.

I look guiltily at him. What if I admitted it, here, now? What would he say? Would he even believe me?

“I’m just overwhelmed. It will pass. You wouldn’t understand – you weren’t there.” I stammer.

My mother is shaking her head. “Alena, healing – it doesn’t just happen – you have to work for it. You have the money from the insurance claim, it’s not like –“ She trails off.

And the insurance money, that ripe twenty grand settlement. All of my belongings that had burned, my new car in the garage beneath, the art I’d produced, the work on my degree – it was all gone.

That little girl is gone too.

You did what you had to do.

Peter met me in the alleyway behind the building less than sixty seconds later, our plan was so well devised.

“You shouldn’t have choked, Ley.” He grumbles.

“I – I –“

“Get in the car.” He commands, not even looking me in the eye.

“Peter, no, we can’t do this.” I fight, my voice hushed and desperate. We’re good people. We can find another way.”

Who was I kidding? There wasn’t any other way. At best, the money from our insurance would help us to stall the debt we were falling into.

“Get. In. The. Car.” Peter grabs me gruffly and shoves me away from the building. “Now.”

It was fast, what happened next.

The struggle, Peter pulling my jacket and me tumbling out of it.

I hit my temple on the bench.

I crumpled to the ground.

I looked up, at the little girl in the fifth story window. I could just make out her form, her large cheeks, the silhouette of curly hair in pigtails.

By the time I looked back down, Peter’s brick had burst through the basement window. The gasoline soaked t-shirt had followed. His match was the finale.

The antique building, with its leaking insulation, dated hardwoods, and unreliable elevator never stood a chance.

The chorus of knocks at the door interrupts my thoughts. I flinch.

“Police.” Comes the call.

He’s gruff, the man who comes for me, but what did I expect? His stiff navy suit matches his demeanor, yet I sense a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he passes the warrant to my parents.

He’s quiet on the ride to the station, and during intake too. He barks in single words at a time, as though he’s training a dog.

Now, we’re here. Boxed tightly within dull, slate grey walls, the room is adorned merely by the plastic chrome table, the scant chairs, and the one-way window.

I can almost see the eyes behind them, the pacing figures. They all scream at me for answers, yet I can’t speak. Was a question even asked yet?

“We know you didn’t do it.” Announces the man in navy finally, absolutely. He must’ve been staring at me for minutes now, deciding how best to break me. His hands are calm, and the pen in his hand deliberately taps the ebony book in front of him.

I freeze.

“Why…the warrant…the cuffs…“

“Your friend, Peter – he did it, didn’t he?” The officer leans back in his chair, sure of himself and the world.

“No.” I respond, almost mute.

“Alena, you shouldn’t hide what he did. It was a despicable crime. You tried to stop him, didn’t you?”

The officer looks pointedly at my temple.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

My eyes open. My head spins. My fingers come to rest on my temple. I look up and I see that snake, coiling through the atmosphere, poised as if to strike.

The sky is alight with fizzling hues that blend into the flames, licking the building, searching for more. Hungry.

I hear sirens, far away. They are so faint they don’t yet hurt my ears. Is it the fire truck, the ambulance?

I look up again and I see that little girl in the window. She’s glaring down at me and she doesn’t seem scared, as though she knows she won’t be left there.

Go in.

I pick myself up off the dirt and I look around for Peter. His car is gone, and my jacket is lying in a heap only feet away from where I am.

But there isn’t time for more, because I’m limping around to the back door, where I know I can sneak in. The front lobby will be littered with people trying to escape, people who will grab me and force me back outside. But I can’t go back outside, I’m going to floor five.

I’m going to save her.