Lonely Fire

• Ruby Acres, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2015

I closed my eyes, breathing heavily. With every breath I felt my head hurt even more. I felt the strong grip of my brother’s hand in mine. My body became consumed with an overwhelming heat. I screamed. I woke in a cold sweat, looking over at the clock I saw it was 2 in the morning. I couldn’t go back to sleep, not tonight. I went downstairs and grabbed the straps of my cello case. I went back to my room and opened the case. I noticed the sweat all over my body as I tightened the hairs of the bow. Terror consumed me. The images of my brother’s burning body consumed me, and to make things worse, it was I who had brought that fate on him. That night haunts me. I close my eyes and feel my hand race up and down the strings as my other arm controlled the bow. I let the music run through my blood as the memories all flooded back. That was the night when I was left alone. My mother’s drunkard ex-boyfriend came into the house that night, drunk and with a knife. My mother screamed at me and Adrian, my brother, to run. I took his hand and we ran as far as we could. We went upstairs and realised the windows were too high to jump from, so we hid in a dark closet in my brother’s room. That was the night I found out I was different. The fire raged from my palms and not long after caught anything in its way, consuming the house. My entire family died in the inferno, but somehow I was fine. I was barely singed at all. The pathetic excuse of a human being- David, my mother’s ex-boyfriend, died that night as well. It makes me sick even just saying his name. I’ve taken to music as it helps me forget. I grimace as I remove my fingers from the strings, the only time I can actually feel burns. I wait for a moment and return to the music, my fingers sliding as I play note after note. I lay down the cello and stare at my wall. My wall contains the only pictures of my family that I could salvage. My father died soon before my brother was born. If it wasn’t for photos I wouldn’t be able to remember him. My brother never knew him, the only father figure he ever had was the one time that my mother found a halfway decent bloke and stayed with him for a few months. He left because he couldn’t deal with my mother’s drinking. That was her only problem. In my reminiscing I became disconnected from reality. I was jolted back by a knock at the door. The only thing is, I live alone. Cautiously, I walked towards the door, standing, listening. A strangely familiar voice called my name. “Naomi!” The recognisable voice called. I open the door. “Adrian?” I ask. He grins.