Swallowing the fire
Original story by Pen Prodigy
Chapter 1
When I think of that horrific day, and all that blood, my knees always go week and wobbly like unstable jelly. I come close to fainting every time I hear that scream echo in my head.
But it's never been this bad. The memories have never been so vivid, and I can't fathom how I ended up here, on this bed, in this unfamiliar room.
I rack my brain for any revealing thoughts, hoping to find even a single clue as to why I'm sitting here. I stare at the plain blue bed sheets, willing my self to remember. A hint of recognition tickles my mind, teasing me. Closing my eyes, I envision my previous room in my mind's eye. The lime green walls appear before me, following a neon green room set. The room takes shape against my closed eyelids. The last thing that takes its place in my room is a single twin bed with a blue bed sheet sitting on it, staring blankly at me. It reminds me of the sky, and soaring through it. Free, like a bird.
My eyes open. Yes. This is it. It is the same room. A little charred and burnt around the edges, but exactly alike my room, nonetheless. It IS my room, but for some odd reason, and can't seem to accept that this was the fate of my precious sanctuary.
At this precise moment, I suddenly realize that this is all a memory as well; a picture conjured by my hopeful and anxious subconscious. Hoping to relieve myself from my undeniably terrible past, I blink a few times, scolding myself for letting down my brick wall and allowing my conscious self to wander into my castle of memories that should stay forgotten.
I find myself in my 8th grade civics class, futilely attempting to pay attention to the current lesson... But how can I? I am Lucy Lenoris, the happy daydreamer.
No. That's wrong. I am no longer Lucy Lenoris. I am now Olivia Jones. This is a new me, but I don't even feel like I am myself. This is somebody that should be me, but is somebody that even I don't know. I can't even recall my hair color, and I can't help but think that as well as my previous life, I've lost who I am in the traffic of the WPP. Every time I slip up, they change my name, as well my looks. Like that one time when I had accidentally told somebody my real name and couldn't cover it up. There have been several more occasions similar to that one, but the worst, most dangerous situation was when they found me. They, as in-
"Olivia? Olivia. OLIVIA!"
"Huh, what? Oh! Y-yes?" I stutter, nervously looking up towards Mrs. Dunes. I feel eyes burning holes into my skin, and when I sweep my eyes across the classroom, I find my self being looked at intently from several angles. This, being the result of a whole class of curious students, completely unnerves me, and so I shrink back into my seat like a threatened turtle.
Mrs. Dunes sighs, and I resolve to nickname her The Impatient Midget. "Detention. Thursday. After school. Bring writing utensils... And be prepared to use them for a long period of time."
"Wait, wha-"
"Oh, and please do remember to bring you brain, Ms. Jones, as you often tend to forget to do."
A few titters can be heard throughout the classroom. But I don't care about that. I don't care about the detention, either. I'm not one to worry about these kinds of trivial things. I used to, but ever since the incident... I'm not so sure that it's as big of a deal to me anymore. What is extra work anyways? For me, it's a good thing. It helps me pass the time. It acts as a numbing agent, pulling my mind away from my painful past. The bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. I gather my belongings and leave the classroom, contemplating the possibilities of ever returning to my old life. Soon, I come to a conclusion.
Impossible.
Chapter 2
3 YEARS AGO...
"Jacob's it! Jacob's it!" They cry, but I pay no heed to the loneliness their glee brings me. All I do is sit in my long retired desk in the classroom that I used to loath. The lights are dim but I can still make out the statue's looming figure. Up to this day, it is still a mystery how it came to be in this classroom. Classroom 201B. The classroom where I lost my freedom, gained it back, and then had it ripped away from me yet again. The one classroom that has survived, escaping only slightly charred.
It is where I now sit, listening to the faint echoes of the dead children's laughter. I see their deathly pale, unblemished skin reflecting the light of the fire that ended their carefree, mirthful lives. The one that subjected them to an everlasting unrealistic existence. They are spirits now, happy as ever. They are still oblivious to the fact that who started the fire once sat where I once sit.
All of a sudden, it clicks, and I remember, no longer having to remember. I now knew who did it. Who to blame. I want to hurt this person. Make whoever it is feel the pain of guilt for taking the lives of 17 innocent children, who are now left to be invisible. Unnoticed. I know how it feels.
And in this instant, the full force of my realization hits me. The blow is hard and cold, but I must take it. It is, after all, the least that I can do for those children, and I deserve it, for I am a monster.
I started the fire. I murdered them.
And yet I am still not human enough to care.
Chapter 3
"Oh, and please do remember to bring you brain, Ms. Jones, as you often tend to forget to do."
A few titters can be heard throughout the classroom. But I don't care about that. I don't care about the detention, either. I'm not one to worry about these kinds of trivial things. I used to, but ever since the incident... I'm not so sure that it's as big of a deal to me anymore. What is extra work anyways? For me, it's a good thing. It helps me pass the time. It acts as a numbing agent, pulling my mind away from my painful past. The bell rings, signaling the end of the school day. I gather my belongings and leave the classroom, contemplating the possibilities of ever returning to my old life. Soon, I come to a conclusion.
Impossible.
Chapter 2
3 YEARS AGO...
"Jacob's it! Jacob's it!" They cry, but I pay no heed to the loneliness their glee brings me. All I do is sit in my long retired desk in the classroom that I used to loath. The lights are dim but I can still make out the statue's looming figure. Up to this day, it is still a mystery how it came to be in this classroom. Classroom 201B. The classroom where I lost my freedom, gained it back, and then had it ripped away from me yet again. The one classroom that has survived, escaping only slightly charred.
It is where I now sit, listening to the faint echoes of the dead children's laughter. I see their deathly pale, unblemished skin reflecting the light of the fire that ended their carefree, mirthful lives. The one that subjected them to an everlasting unrealistic existence. They are spirits now, happy as ever. They are still oblivious to the fact that who started the fire once sat where I once sit.
All of a sudden, it clicks, and I remember, no longer having to remember. I now knew who did it. Who to blame. I want to hurt this person. Make whoever it is feel the pain of guilt for taking the lives of 17 innocent children, who are now left to be invisible. Unnoticed. I know how it feels.
And in this instant, the full force of my realization hits me. The blow is hard and cold, but I must take it. It is, after all, the least that I can do for those children, and I deserve it, for I am a monster.
I started the fire. I murdered them.
And yet I am still not human enough to care.
Chapter 3
I miss them. I miss my old life. The one where I enjoyed every day, the only thing on my mind being about boys, and tests, and other trivial things like that. This new life of mine is nothing like my previous one. Everyday I wonder: Will I ever get to see them again? Will I be stuck here forever? I know the answer, but I don’t want to say it aloud, so instead, I trap it in my thoughts, like a caged animal anxious to get out. No. No, I won’t ever get to see them again. Yes. Yes, I will be stick here forever. The answer is obvious, and I want to evade it. I want to run into the deep recesses of my mind- into the alleys in a desperate attempt to escape. But I know that won’t work. Perhaps if I stop asking myself these persistent questions then it could be possible, and perhaps if I wouldn’t be so pessimistic, as well.
I snort, doubtful of my reasoning. Yeah, and pigs can fly.
Suddenly, I am torn from my saddening thoughts on my way walking home from school by a deep, raspy voice behind me, and clearer one arguing with it. Without turning around, I pause and I listen in on the conversation.
“-coulda been there! But naw, you was “tired”! I bet you jus’ didn’t wanna see your ex again!” Says the first voice. He sounds like a chain-smoker. This thought sends shivers running down my spine and adrenaline coursing through my veins with the memory of my father’s death. I zone out, immersed in my own thoughts, but occasionally tuning back in just to get the gist of the statement.
“Well, I’m not the one dating my best friend’s ex! Don’t pin this on me!” Yells the second voice.
“Look, I like her, she likes me. Besides, you’re the one that was tired,” repeats the chain-smoker.
Tired. That was what I was after futilely trying to stop the blood, but it had just kept coming and coming.
“-and you know what? I don’t even care! It doesn’t matter to me anymore!”
“You best not anger me. Ya dunno wha’ I’m cap’ble o’!
The crimson liquid pouring from his wound. The pained screams of the tortured. Of the injured. Of my father. The unnerving silence of the dead. Of the formerly living. Of my father. That sniper had been a good shot. A very good shot, unfortunately.
I am much too depressed to decide whose voice is whose. It’s all just a jumbled mess.
I am much too depressed to decide whose voice is whose. It’s all just a jumbled mess.
“Oh really, now? What are going to do? Huh? You can’t even talk correctly! You’ve got this stupid speech disability or someth-“
“Woul’ ya like me to dem’nstrate?”
“Not at all. You’d just end up doing something stupi- WHAT IS THAT! HOW DID YOU GET THA- NO! DON’T! THAT’S NOT A GOO-“
A groan.
But I don’t care that the argument has escalated to what could become a violent brawl soon. My attention focused on my past.
My father. Dead. It’s true that I had never really thought that the declining value of the law firm’s work would come to this. It had been so unbelievable at the time, but now I realize that it is not a dream. In every way it is reality. I know that now.
I don’t want to continue the ride on the train of thought, so I pull myself out of the horrific slideshow of images just in time to here one sentence that makes me want to bolt from my standstill on the sidewalk.
Something cold and metallic is pressed against my temple. I can’t tell what it is because my eyes are still closed, trying to keep away the threatening tears. However, I am still afraid. A violent power seems to radiate from its presence.
“I’ll pull da trigger if ya don’ li’en to me.”
I’m not in the mood to listen to grammatical or pronunciation mistakes. “Listen.”
“Wha’”
“Listen,” I repeat. “It’s pronounced ‘listen’.”
“Don’t provoke him!” The more reasonable of the two men butts in. His voice is smooth and calming, unlike the other man’s.
“Yeah. Ya bes’ li’en to ya friend, ‘ere.”
“He’s not my friend. He’s yours. At least, that’s what he said.
“So ya been li’ening in on or conv’sation, have ya? Well this’ll teach ya a le’on.”
“Lesson,” I correct.
“STO’ IT!” he screams, enraged. My ears are beginning to throb.
“No.”
The nicer of the two men is getting anxious and twitchy. I can see him kneading at his pointer finger anxiously out of the corner of my now open eye. “Don’t disagree with him, please,” he pleads, and then turns to my attacker. “Please, put it away.”
My eyes widen in disbelief as I realize what the weapon it is.
“You’re holding a gun,” I state bluntly.
My fearsome assailant sneers, and his mouth smells of burnt tobacco and a toothpaste less week. I can also detect more than a hint of alcohol. “O’ course. What are you, du’?
“OH, FOR GOODNESS’ SAKES! ITS ‘DUMB’, YOU THICK HEADED SCOUNDREL!” A stunned silence follows my enraged outburst. It is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop. Quiet enough to hear the safety trigger click, a complete duplicate of what has just happened.
He brings his lips close to my ear. Too close, in fact, for I can yet again catch a whiff of that foul smelling breath. The scent causes me to gag, disgusted.
“Ya stupi’ li’le girl. This’ll teach ya some res’ect for ya eldas.”
“NO, DON’T!” The other man screams just as I say, “IT’S ‘LITTLE’! GET IT RIGHT!”
He brings his mouth ever closer, and I can feel his hot, sticky breath on my cheek. It is sickening.
“Yur stupid.”
“Get a breath mint,” I mutter under my breath, realizing all too late that I had said the wrong thing.
Click.
Chapter 4
I’ve only seen somebody die once before. And that was my father. It had definitely struck a nerve.
But the thing is, I’ve never actually experienced dying before, or anything else even remotely related to it.
Chapter 4
I’ve only seen somebody die once before. And that was my father. It had definitely struck a nerve.
But the thing is, I’ve never actually experienced dying before, or anything else even remotely related to it.
Which would make sense.
So this is death, I think. How odd. It’s exactly the same as the world of the living.
“Your not dead.” Is that my subconscious of the afterworld telling me this? Well, it’s wrong. “Your not dead. Not dead. Not dead… YOU’RE NOT DEAD? YOU’RE NOT DEAD! YOU’RE NOT DEAD! WHY ISN’T SHE DEAD?!?!?! WHY ARE THERE NO BULLETS?!?!?! JIMMY! IT WAS YOU! THIS WAS ALL YOUSE’S FAULT!”
Realization strikes me. I’m not dead. Of course. That would explain the screaming man behind me repeating that phrase.
“Well, what did you expect? That I was stupid enough to leave them in there? I know that it would only be a matter of time before you found it and took it.” It turn around, curiosity engulfing me.
The chain smoker speaks again, seething. He has angry mud-green eyes and stubble growing from his double chin. His clearly blemished skin is a sickly pale. All in all, he is extremely ugly. “Why?” He growls.
“Because I’m smart, that’s why. Really, Sam. I thought you would have noticed the missing bullets,” says Jimmy. Running a calloused hand through his dirty blonde hair. I find it interesting that he looks surprisingly similar to me when I am not in disguise.
Jimmy’s attitude is the exact opposite of Sam’s. His ocean blue eyes are comforting, and they look familiar. They look like mine.
Sam grabs Jimmy’s collar and holds him up to his face, saying “No, ya not."
“What’s going on?” I inquire, but neither pays me any mind.
“I’m smart,” Jimmy repeats, holding his hands up as if showing that he has no weapons or anything of the sort, trying not to look in the least bit threatening. It works. Sam puts him down. Not gently.
Jimmy turns to me and apologizes. “I’m sorry about Sam. He’s in a bit of a drunken stupor.”
“Just a bit.”
“He gets a little violent at times,” He says, as if it’s no big deal. As if this drama is performed everyday. If this is true, then I’d hate to be Jimmy. He sighs. “Sorry again.”
“It’s okay. Here, let’s start over: Hi, I’m Lu- Olivia.”
“Okay, hello. I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Le-“ Jimmy is interrupted by shock.
Sam’s fist slams into my face. The last thing that I remember before blacking out is Jimmy’s next words and a sigh echoing in the walls of my head.
“So much for starting over.”
