I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, trying to catch my breath as the Muay Thai class wraps up around me. Sweat drips down my forehead and stings my eyes, but I couldnt help but grin. My gloves are off and dangling from one hand, and I use my other arm to wipe at the sheen of sweat on my face. I feel amazing. My muscles are quivering with that satisfying post-workout exhaustion, and my heart is still thumping with adrenaline. After less than a month of training, I can already throw a halfway decent roundhouse kick, and that thought fills me with pride. Today was pad work and drills, an hour of punches, kicks, knees, and elbows until my limbs felt like jelly. It was brutal, but in the best way. I loved every second.
I gulp down a last sip of water from my bottle, the cold liquid soothing my dry throat. The gym smells of leather, mat dust, and that herbal liniment oil the advanced students rub on their shins; it's a sharp, minty scent that I've grown to weirdly enjoy. I unwrap the long cotton hand wraps from my wrists and knuckles, fingers fumbling a little. My hands are red and a bit sore from hitting pads, but it's a good kind of sore. I feel strong, well, stronger than I was a few weeks ago. It's hard to believe I only started doing this a month back. Seventeen years old, barely five-foot-three, and learning how to kick butt… or at least how to kick a heavy bag without falling over. If you told me a year ago I'd be into Muay Thai, I would've laughed. Yet here I am, practically buzzing with energy after class.
As I sling my gym bag over my shoulder, I catch my reflection in the wall mirror. My dark hair is a damp, frizzy mess from sweat and being shoved under headgear earlier, cheeks flushed pink from exertion. Strands of it stick to my forehead. I look tired, sure, but I also look happy. There's a light in my eyes that wasn't there before I started training. I give myself a little nod, half encouragement, half silly self-congratulation and then turn to jog toward the exit. My legs protest slightly with each step down from the training mats; they're wobbly after all the squats and roundhouse kick drills we did. I can't help a small laugh at how utterly spent I felt.
On the way out I wave at my instructor who responds with a friendly nod and exchange smiles with a couple of classmates gathering their stuff. My shyness kept me mostly quiet in class at first, but everyone here is so warm and supportive that I've started to come out of my shell. I still don't know most of their names, but there's a camaraderie in shared sweat and effort plus it did help that most of them loved anime as much as me. I love that about this place. Pushing open the heavy gym door, I'm greeted by the cool early evening air of my small town. It's a relief against my hot skin. I pause on the doorstep to breathe in the outside air, cool and crisp and carrying the faint smell of cut grass from a nearby lawn. The sun is hanging low and golden, casting long shadows across the quiet street.
Tomorrow is my eighteenth birthday, and I can't help bouncing on my toes for a second in excitement. Eighteen! It feels surreal and exciting and a little scary all at once. I've been counting down the days, though. There's not a grand celebration planned or anything just dinner with my family and maybe a movie night with my best friend this weekend, we were supposed to watch the broly movie again, Still turning eighteen feels like a milestone. A new level unlocked. I grin to myself, imagining I just gained +1 to adulthood or something. My stomach growls loudly, right, food. I'm absolutely starving after that workout.
As I start walking down the sidewalk heading home, I let my mind wander to all the delicious possibilities waiting in our fridge. Maybe Mom saved me some of that stir-fry from last night. Or I could stop by the little bakery on the corner if they're still open and treat myself to an early birthday cupcake. Mmm, cupcake… The thought is almost enough to make me drool. Training on an empty stomach was probably not the brightest idea; now all I can think about is eating something sweet and carby. I adjust the strap of my gym bag on my shoulder, feeling the slight ache in my arms from holding pads for a partner earlier.
Humming softly, I walk past familiar storefronts and houses. This town is small enough that I recognize most places by sight: the diner where my best friend and I hang out after school, the bookstorewhere i get my manga with the old cats that lounge in the window, the tiny park where kids are probably skateboarding.
I fish my phone out of my bag as I walk, checking for any messages. There's one from Dad: "Pick up milk on your way home pls." I smile and quickly thumb back a reply: "Ok!" He's probably prepping for tomorrow. Dad's been oddly secretive about the cake; every time I come into the kitchen he shoos me away. It makes me laugh he's definitely planning something, and he's terrible at hiding it.
Maybe a surprise flavor or some weird decoration. The mystery cake, plus Mom's stir-fry, plus maybe that cupcake I'm fantasizing about… My poor stomach growls again, louder this time. I laugh under my breath. Hang in there, tummy. Home isn't far.
Just as I slip my phone away, a motion and a flicker of color catch my eye up ahead. I squint down the street. Beyond the rows of houses, over towards Maple Avenue, I see something that makes me slow my pace. There's a thin wisp of gray smoke curling into the sky. It's subtle, almost easy to miss in the dimming light, but it's definitely there. My first thought is someone's having a barbecue or burning leaves, though the weather's been pretty dry for leaf-burning. But a second later, I realize the smoke is darkening, turning black and thick, and there's a lot more of it now. That's not a barbecue.
A prickle of unease runs through me. I stop on the sidewalk, heart beginning to thud in my chest in a different way than it did at the gym. That smoke is coming from somewhere close by, maybe just a street or two over. As I watch, the gray-black plume grows broader, billowing upward. Fire. There must be a fire.
For a second I just stand there frozen, staring at the distant column of smoke against the pale evening sky. I'm not sure what to do. My thoughts are a jumble of worry and curiosity and a nervous. House fires aren't common here; it's the kind of sleepy town where excitement usually means the high school football team won a game, not… this.
Part of me thinks: Should I call someone? Has anyone called 911? Another part of me is already moving, legs carrying me briskly down the street in the direction of the smoke before I fully decide to.
As I get closer, the smell hits me: that unmistakable, acrid scent of burning wood and something chemical. It stings my nose. My walking turns into jogging, gym bag bouncing against my back. My mind races faster than my feet. What's on fire? Is it a house? An apartment building? Are there people there? My gut twists anxiously at that thought. Of course there are people there—this is a residential area. Panic and urgency bubble up inside me, and I have to remind myself to stay calm. Panicking won't help anyone.
My sneakers pound the pavement as I round the corner onto Maple Avenue. The smoke is thicker here, a hazy veil starting to waft across the street. I cough, one hand flying to cover my mouth. There, ahead on the right, I can see an orange glow through the gathering dusk, flickering angrily out of the windows of a three-story apartment building. Flames.
For an instant, everything in me wants to turn and run the other way, an instinctual bolt of fear at the sight of roaring flames. The sensible voice in my head is screaming at me: Get back! Wait for the firefighters! I can already hear sirens in the distance, thank God. Someone must have called for help. This street is usually quiet, but right now it's chaos. A few people are outside on the sidewalk, silhouettes moving frantically in front of the bright inferno. I see an older man in a bathrobe, his face drawn in panic as he shouts something I can't make out. A young woman is crying, standing barefoot on the lawn and reaching out toward the building as if she wants to go back in. She's being held back by a neighbor. My mind registers these details in flashes.
I slow to a stop a safe distance away, my breaths ragged from running and from the harsh smoke in the air. The heat is incredible even from here, a wave of warmth hitting my face. The entire front of the apartment building is in flames, orange and yellow tongues curling out of several second-story windows, black smoke pouring upward.
People are stumbling out the front entrance, coughing and covered in soot, some in pajamas, some barefoot. There's shattered glass on the sidewalk where a window must have blown out. It's an image out of a nightmare, and for a few heartbeats I can only stare, heart hammering, a mix of horror and helplessness paralyzing me.
Then I hear it, a scream from inside. A shrill, desperate sound that cuts through the crackle of the fire and the distant wail of approaching sirens. My chest constricts. I catch a glimpse of movement at a window on the ground floor a figure leaning out, coughing, then disappearing back into black smoke. They're trapped. More screams, maybe from an upper floor, I can't tell—there's so much noise and heat and confusion.
I feel a surge inside me, as I drop my gym bag on the sidewalk without a second thought. My mind flashes to every heroic scene from the anime shows I love, every brave fighter running toward danger instead of away. This is real, I tell myself. Real and happening right now, right in front of me. I'm not a superhero. I'm just a girl who learned how to throw a punch. But I can't just stand here and do nothing!
Before I can talk myself out of it, I sprint toward the building. The rational part of my brain yells that this is crazy, that I should wait for the professionals who are on their way. But waiting even a minute could mean someone dies right now. The thought of that the thought of later learning I stood by while people lost their lives, propelled me forward. If I can help even a little, I have to try.
The heat intensifies as I approach the open front door of the apartment building. I hesitate for just a fraction of a second at the threshold, instinctively raising an arm to shield my face from the blistering heat. Oh God. The air that blasts out is thick like standing in front of an oven. My eyes water instantly. The interior is dark, lit only by the flicker of flames deeper inside. Coughing hard, I crouch low, remembering some fire safety tip from who-knows-when: smoke rises, so the cleaner air is near the floor.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice cracking from smoke and fear. I'm not even sure who or what I expect to answer. Through the ringing in my ears, I think I hear someone inside, a faint cry or moan. The lobby of the building is filled with a hazy glow. I force myself to move, one arm braced over my mouth and nose. Inside, the smoke is everywhere, turning the air to burning tar in my lungs. I can't help coughing every few seconds.
Just a few steps in, I nearly trip over something on the floor. Blinking tears from my eyes, I see it's a fallen picture frame and some scattered shoes, people must have fled in a hurry. An overhead light fixture has already melted and shattered; I crunch over broken glass. But somewhere to my left, down a hall, I hear a weak shout.
"Is anyone there?!" I shout again, moving toward the sound. My voice doesn't right, it's high, panicked. The crackling of fire is louder now. I follow a corridor toward the back of the building, each step feeling slower than the last as if I'm moving through thick water. The smoke clings to me, and I squint to see. The hallway splits, one direction leading to a stairwell. The screams I heard might have come from upstairs, but right here in front of me, a door is half-open and someone is inside calling for help.
I push into the apartment unit, and instantly the wall of heat intensifies. The living room is partially on fire, the curtains and some furniture engulfed, casting dancing shadows across the small space. A hunched shape comes into view: an elderly woman, coughing violently, limping toward the door. She's moving so slowly. One of her arms is clutching a blanket around her shoulders, and the other is reaching out as if blindly feeling for the exit. She must be disoriented by the smoke.
Without hesitating, I rush to her side. "It's okay, I'm here," I manage to say, trying to sound calm even though my heart is battering my ribs. She turns her face toward me, eyes wide and terrified behind smudged glasses. Soot streaks her nightgown and skin. She's gasping, each breath a wet, wheezing sound. I gently take her arm. "Come on, let's get you out," I urge.
She nods weakly, too busy coughing to answer. Supporting as much of her weight as I can, she's smaller than my own mom, and frail, I guide her through the choking haze toward the entrance. Every few steps she falters, and I tighten my grip, practically half-carrying her. My throat burns and my eyes are streaming, but I grit my teeth and focus on moving forward. Just a little further.
We make it out into the cooler air of the lobby and then, blessedly, outside. As soon as we clear the door, fresh air hits my face, and I gulp it in, greedily replacing smoke in my lungs with oxygen. The woman is shaking; I help her over to the sidewalk, where a couple of neighbors rush forward. One brings a blanket and wraps it around her shoulders; another takes her arm from me, carefully seating her on the curb. They're talking to her, voices urgent and comforting, but I can't focus on the words, they sound muffled, like I'm underwater. The adrenaline is surging so hard through me I feel disconnected for a moment, just staring at the flames.
A loud crash from above snaps me back. Part of the roof has just collapsed in a burst of sparks and embers. The crowd still gathered gasps and recoils. The sirens are loud now, almost here. I can see the flashing red lights of fire trucks rounding the corner down the street. But the fire is growing, eating its way through the building with a roar, and I know the firefighters won't be able to magically fix everything the second they arrive. People are still inside right now.
My lungs and throat scream in protest at the idea of going back in that hellish heat, but I know, I know there were voices from upstairs. The second floor looked completely ablaze, but maybe the third? If anyone's up there… My stomach clenches. They won't last if nobody helps them now.
I turn on my heel and dash back toward the entrance. A man on the sidewalk tries to grab my arm as I pass. "Stop! You can't—" he starts, his face a mix of soot and shock. I wrench free from his grasp before he can finish. He's not going to stop me, not when people are crying for help in there. I hear him shout something after me, but I'm already diving back into the smoke-choked lobby.
The temperature inside seems even hotter now, and it slams into me like a physical force. I have to fight the urge to recoil. Focus. I pull the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth as a makeshift filter and stumble toward the stairwell. The stairs are concrete; they haven't burned, but they're covered in debris and growing slick with soot. The screams definitely came from above earlier. If anyone's still calling out, I can't hear them over the roar of the fire and my own coughing, but I refuse to assume everyone's out.
I grasp the metal railing and start hauling myself upward two steps at a time. The metal feels hot, under my hand, it burns, and I end up letting go. Halfway up to the second floor, I encounter flames licking down the stairwell wall. I jerk back as the fire singes the edge of my shoe. The whole second floor must be a furnace. Crouching low again, I skirt around the flames on the stairs, pressing my side against the railing to squeeze past where part of the ceiling above has caved in. My heart is pounding so loudly I hear it over the cacophony of destruction around me.
I reach the landing of the second floor and it's like stepping into the mouth of a dragon. The heat is so intense I instinctively raise an arm to shield my face, and I can feel the hair on my forearm singe. Flames are devouring the hallway ahead, one side is fully engulfed, and the other is belching thick smoke from under the apartment doors. It's an inferno. How can anyone still be here? But then through the crackling, I think I hear a faint cry. A child's cry.
My blood turns to ice even as my skin feels on fire. There's a kid up here. I force myself forward, sticking close to the wall on the side that's not ablaze, where there's marginally less fire. The floorboards are scorching under my feet; I can feel heat even through my sneakers. "Hello!" I shout, or try to, but it comes out more like a croak. I cough, nearly doubling over. "Is anyone here?!" I manage, my voice raw.
"Here! We're—" A voice answers, from farther down the hall. A woman's voice, strained and desperate, coughing out the words. "Help! Please!"
I move as fast as I can toward that voice, one arm stretched out in front of me in case I have to feel my way. The smoke is so dense I can barely see more than a few feet. Twice I stumble over debris, what feels like part of a collapsed door. Each time catching myself, driven on by that voice. It sounds like she's near the end of the corridor. Everything is burning around me: paint bubbles on the walls, the ceiling above cracks with sickening noises. Another section of it crashes down at the far end, sending up a burst of embers and heat. I flinch but keep going.
Finally I nearly trip over them. On the floor against a half-open doorway lies a woman, maybe in her thirties. She's pinned under a wooden beam that's fallen from the ceiling. Next to her, cradled in one of her arms, is an unconscious little girl, maybe four or five years old, limp as a rag doll, eyes closed. The woman's free hand is waving weakly in the air, as if trying to get someone's attention, or perhaps she was trying to push the beam off and collapsed. She's coughing, face contorted in pain and terror. The child isn't moving at all, and a bolt of raw panic shoots through me at the thought that we might be too late.
"I'm here!" I choke out, dropping to my knees beside them. The carpet here is partially charred, still smoking, but not yet aflame. I can feel heat through my pants as I kneel. Immediately, I try to lift the beam off the woman. It's a thick piece of wood, part of a support or ceiling joist, and it's heavier than anything I've ever lifted in my life. I wedge my hands under it and heave, putting every bit of strength I have into it. My arms strain, my burned forearm skin screaming in protest. It shifts maybe an inch. She cries out in agony, likely it's crushing her legs. I grit my teeth and push harder, legs braced against the floor. The beam moves a bit more, but I just... I can't get enough leverage. My breath is coming in frantic gasps that don't give me any oxygen, only smoke. I cough and nearly black out for a second, dizzy.
The woman grips my wrist suddenly, her soot-stained face close to mine. "My daughter," she wheezes, barely audible. She's trying to shove the little girl into my arms. "Please… take her." Her eyes brim with tears, whether from pain or heartbreak or both. In them, I see a horrible acceptance. She knows she's not coming out of this. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
"No, I'll get you too," I protest, voice breaking, still pushing at the beam with my other hand. It's barely budged; I know it, and she knows it. The woman shakes her head, a desperate, jerky motion. Another cough racks her and she almost loses hold of the child. Reflexively, I reach to support the little girl's small, unconscious body. The child's face is smudged with ash, her lips a sickly hue. But she's breathing faintly, shallow breaths. She's alive, but maybe not for long without air.
There's a blast of heat down the hall a doorway engulfed, flames pouring out. The fire is closing in on us, orange light dancing closer along the walls. We have seconds at best. My eyes meet the mother's. In that instant, a wave of emotion crashes over me: anguish, helplessness, the sheer unfairness of it. She shouldn't have to choose this. I feel hot tears on my face, maybe from the smoke, maybe from my breaking heart.
"I'll come back," I promise her, even though I'm not sure it's a promise I can keep. But I can't just say nothing. Her hand finds mine and she squeezes it once, hard. Then with the last of her strength she pushes the little girl fully into my arms. I gather the child against my chest, reeling from the weight of what I'm about to do. This woman is asking me to save her daughter and leave her behind. It's the cruelest choice I've ever faced. I want to scream, to cry that it's not fair, that I can't do it. But I have to. The girl is tiny and innocent and has her whole life ahead of her. The mother knows that. I know that.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper to the woman, voice cracking, as I shift to get a good hold on the little girl. The woman just gives me a trembling, grateful smile, an expression I will never forget as tears carve clean lines through the soot on her cheeks.
Clutching the child tightly, I rise to my feet. My legs nearly buckle; I'm running on fumes now, adrenaline the only thing keeping me upright. I turn, coughing violently, and start back down the corridor the way I came. Behind me, I hear the mother sob once a guttural, soul-wrenching sound that chases me into the flames.
My vision tunnels as I run back toward the stairwell. I force myself to focus on just one step at a time. The weight of the little girl in my arms is awkward, but she's so small, maybe forty pounds. I can manage that, I have to. She's limp, head lolling against my shoulder as I half-carry, half-drag us forward. The smoke is even thicker now; I can barely see my own feet. I stay low as much as I can while still moving quickly. I shield the girl's face with my hand and shoulder as sparks singe my arms and back. The heat behind me is an angry beast's breath, spurring me to move faster.
The journey down that hallway that took maybe twenty seconds before now feels endless. At one point I stumble over something a body? Dear God, maybe someone who collapsed but I can't stop. Please, let the firefighters find them, I beg silently, because if I pause here we'll all die. My lungs are so raw every breath feels like inhaling knives. I cough and cough, my body screaming for oxygen, my knees threatening to give out. The stairs. I just need to reach the stairs.
By sheer luck or blind instinct, I find the stairwell doorway. The frame is blackened and one of the doors is hanging off its hinges. I nearly pitch forward down the first steps but catch myself and steady the child in my arms. Down we go, one flight. I don't remember racing up these stairs being so hard, but now it's like I'm moving through wet cement. Each step jolts pain through my legs and back. I hold the girl as tightly as I dare, terrified of tripping and dropping her. Below, I can see flickers of light the open exit. Almost there. Just a little more.
A thunderous crash echoes somewhere above us. I pray the stairway holds long enough. The building is literally coming down around our ears. I hit the ground floor landing and slam my shoulder against the door to the lobby, bursting out into the open air beyond.
Cool night air washes over me, a shock against my overheated skin. I gasp, almost sobbing with relief as clean oxygen fills my lungs. The child in my arms stirs and coughs weakly; it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. We're out. We made it out.
Staggering across the threshold, I move quickly away from the burning entry, afraid something might collapse behind us. The world outside is a chaotic scene of flashing lights and shouting voices now. The fire trucks have arrived. A red engine is parked at a haphazard angle on the street, and firefighters in yellow gear are unfurling hoses, barking orders. An ambulance is pulling up, too, lights painting the night in bursts of color. Bystanders are everywhere, kept back by some hastily erected barrier of police tape and a couple of officers. I barely register any of it. My focus is on the little girl, and finding somewhere safe to set her down.
"Over here!" I croak to no one in particular, my voice ragged. Immediately, two EMTs rush toward me with a small stretcher board. They must have seen me come out. One of them, a woman with soot already on her cheeks, gently takes the child from my arms. I protest weakly, "Her mom, her mom's still…" but I can't finish the sentence. I sway on my feet, suddenly lightheaded. The world tips and I nearly keel over. The EMT catches my shoulder with one hand.
"Easy, I got you," she says. Her voice is so calm and kind that it nearly breaks me. She's already checking the child's vitals with the other hand, but her eyes flick to me, but i push her hand away and head back insided.
I looked around the first floor, please i begged in my mind, just one more person. lying halfway out of an open apartment doorway, one arm extended into the hall. They must have collapsed trying to escape. I hurry to them, kneeling. It's a man, maybe early twenties, coughing feebly. His eyes are closed, face slick with sweat and soot. He's still alive, hope surges in me, but barely conscious. I shake his shoulder. "Hey! Can you hear me? We have to move!" He groans, disoriented, but doesn't fully respond. He's too heavy and out of it to get up on his own. I'll have to drag him.
Bracing myself, I hook my hands under his armpits and start pulling. My burned arms scream with pain at the effort, and I clench my jaw so hard I taste blood. He's bigger than me, maybe 160 or 170 pounds, and dead weight. I inch backward, hauling him toward the front door of the building. Every muscle fiber in me strains. My vision wavers with dizziness. The heat is getting worse; flames are crawling along the ceiling now, making horrible cracking noises. It feels like trying to outrun a tidal wave of fire while dragging a boulder.
I reposition, squat, and with trembling resolve lift him enough to get his upper body over my shoulder in a fireman's carry like I've seen in movies. My knees nearly buckle at the sudden load. A whimper of pain escapes me as my burned skin rubs harshly against his weight and my half-roasted muscles protest. But I stagger forward, one agonizing step at a time, down the narrow hall. The man's weight presses on my shoulders, my chest felt like it was getting crushed, making it even harder to breathe. Don't fall, I tell myself. Don't you dare fall.
The final few yards feel like miles. My body is at its breaking point; I've never known such absolute exhaustion and pain. It's like my body is one giant bruise being squeezed, burned, and drained all at once.
With a last burst of desperation, I heave the man over the threshold, half-tumbling out onto the concrete porch of the building. Strong arms reach for us immediately firefighters. Two of them grab the unconscious man, and a third wraps an arm around me, pulling me further out and down the steps.
"We've got you, we've got you, you stupid kid" a voice says. My hearing is swimming in and out. I'm on my hands and knees on the sidewalk now, gulping air that tastes gloriously clean compared to inside. Someone is patting down a section of my shirt that's burning. They quickly douse the small flame, then help me up and move me away from the collapsing structure. I can hardly stand, so I lean on them heavily. Everything hurts. Every single part of me is either screaming in pain or so numb I'm not sure it's even still attached.
They lay me on a stretcher on the ground—when did an actual stretcher get here?—and I feel hands on me, voices around. Snippets cut through: "—third degree burns here—," "—oxygen mask—," "—stay with us, hey, stay awake." There's a mask being placed over my face, and I greedily suck in the cool, pure oxygen. It's like breathing life itself. My vision clears a little. I see the night sky above, stars faintly visible through haze, and black smoke billowing into that sky from the building. The building… is everyone out? Did I do enough?
I try to speak, to ask, but my throat only produces a raw croak. A figure in firefighter gear leans over into my field of view. I think he says, "You're incredible brave and stupid, you know that? Just hang on, okay? Medics are here." I blink slowly. Am I crying? Probably, I feel wetness on my cheeks, but that might be from the oxygen mask condensation or the sheer physical stress.
The firefighter moves away and for a moment I'm left staring upward. My head lolls to the side and I catch sight of movement: the little girl being loaded into an ambulance, the elderly woman I helped now swaddled in blankets on a gurney, coughing but alive. Alive. The man I just dragged out is being tended to by paramedics right next to me, an oxygen mask on his face as well. He's unconscious but he's breathing. That's three people. My chest squeezes at that thought.
A sob shudders through me, and suddenly the oxygen mask is not enough to get air. I feel like I'm drowning in open air, panic and sorrow crushing my chest. I try to push myself up, I realize they've secured me to the stretcher. "No, wait—" I rasp, my voice barely a whisper. "There's still—"
As if in answer, a monstrous boom rattles the air. My eyes snap to the source: the apartment building's far side collapses inward, sending a fireball into the sky. The ground trembles with the force of it. People scream and back away farther. I see a section of wall topple, spewing sparks. In a heartbeat, the entire structure begins to cave in on itself. Beams, bricks, everything crumbling. I hear someone shout "Everyone back!" as a cloud of ash and embers rushes out from the wreck.
The world becomes a slow-motion tableau of chaos and noise. I watch the building I was just inside of literally moments ago fall to pieces, and a cold realization blooms within me: anyone still in there… they're gone. If I hadn't gotten out when I did, I'd be gone too.
I lie back, the adrenaline that was propping me up finally draining away all at once. I feel heavy. So, so heavy. Like gravity just doubled, pinning me to the stretcher. Every part of my body throbs or burns. I close my eyes behind the mask, unable to hold them open any longer. Distantly, I hear voices—urgent, concerned. They sound worried about me. Why? I wonder in a detached way. I'm fine… I'm fine… I saved people. They're safe.
Images flicker through my mind: Mom and Dad's faces smiling, my birthday cake waiting on our kitchen counter with eighteen candles, my best friend laughing as we watch silly anime fights on my laptop. Tomorrow… I was going to… to celebrate. A weak, soft cry escapes my lips. Tomorrow.
A faint warmth touches my hand. Someone's hand? I can't tell. My senses are muddy. There's an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with fire or smoke. It's the realization that I might not get a tomorrow. I feel it like a weight pressing on my heart. But as that weight settles, another feeling joins it: a quiet pride. If I don't get tomorrow, at least they do. The little girl gets a tomorrow. The old woman. That man. They get a chance.
My thoughts are unraveling, slippery. I struggle to hold onto one. I did the right thing, I think. Didn't I? I want someone to tell me I did. In my memory I see the mother's tearful smile as she entrusted her child to me. Her face swims in my mind, and I hope—pray—that she somehow knows her baby is okay. That her sacrifice meant something.
My own end… I realize dimly that it might be now. The understanding is surreal. I'm only seventeen and I'm dying on a sidewalk on a random Thursday night. It doesn't feel possible, and yet it feels oddly peaceful in a way. Like a door I'm gradually drifting through. The voices around me are getting distant. The scream of sirens, the crackle of fire, all fading under a high-pitched ringing in my ears. My body is not so much in pain now as it is numb, an overwhelming fatigue taking over.
I open my eyes one last time, wanting to see the stars. Through the thinning smoke, a few tiny lights glimmer in the dark sky. I wonder, fleetingly, if my parents will be okay. This will break their hearts. I'm so sorry… I never meant to hurt them. I just wanted to help. I hope they'll understand.
My vision blurs as tears well up again. Everything is going hazy, the world swimming. The noise around me has faded to a soft humming. I exhale a breath into the mask and it fogs with condensation. My chest flutters weakly. I'm so tired. More tired than I've ever been. It would be okay to rest now, right? Just… rest. My eyes slip shut again, and this time I can't find the strength to open them.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I feel a strange lightness, as if I'm floating. The pain is fading away, the heat replaced by a cool, gentle calm. The last thought that flickers through my fading consciousness is of the birthday cake I'll never see and the people I saved tonight. It's a bittersweet mix of regret and fulfillment.
I release a final, shuddering breath. I did what I could. Tomorrow will come, but not for me. And that's okay.
Everything goes quiet and still as I let go, a peaceful darkness embracing me in my final moment.