Chapter One
Pace
Heat clings to my skin. Smoke fills my lungs. I am trapped.
My fists beat against the door as it melts right in front of me. I cry out as pain blooms inside of me. I scream but no sound can be heard above the roar of the fire. I watch everything I knew burn to ash right in front of me. I can do nothing. Nothing can be saved. No one else is able to escape.
“No! Mama!” I scream as fire fills my vision until I can see nothing else.
Sitting up, I realize it is cool in the room. Bright moonlight shines in through the open windows, bringing the sweet scent of the pine trees that surround my cabin. I am not in the city. Not in a two bedroom walk up. I am not watching my entire world go up in flames. I am safe. But I am not okay.
“Not again,” I hiss as I pull at the tank top clinging to my skin. I am sweating, my sheets drenched, my body aching.
Climbing out of bed, I strip the sheets, balling them up with my damp shirt to toss it all in the hamper. I grab a fresh set of sheets from the linen closet, tossing them on the bed. Before I get back in bed, I head down the hall for a quick shower. I am shaking as I step beneath the hot spray, my hands balled into fists at my sides.
“Doc said to count until I stop seeing it in my head,” I mutter to myself.
If I were to count until I stopped seeing my childhood home go up in flames, I might never run out of numbers. Closing my eyes against the onslaught of images, I take several calming breaths. It takes a few moments, but I start to calm down. The hot water beating down on me, the cool tile beneath my feet, ithelps ground me in the now.
It has been a few weeks since my last nightmare. After I step out of the shower, I grab the notebook by the bedside table. I write everything I can remember from the dream. The heat of the flames, the shouts of my mother, my sister, cries from my little brother. I can recall it all as if it just happened, not just in a dream, but as if I were back where it all fell apart.
It’s been close to eight years since I lost everything in that fire. I was too late to do anything. Too weak to save any of them. I watched the home I grew up in, all of my memories, and my entire family burn to the ground. It was all there one moment and gone the next. I was taking my mother flowers for Mother’s Day when I saw the brownstone up in flames. I was too late.
“Always too fucking late,” I hiss as I pull on fresh sweats.
Outside, a cool spring morning is waking the small town of Ashwood. It will be a nice break from the past few weeks of rain. The air is crisp and the skies clear as I head outside for a quick jog. I won’t be able to go back to bed now. Not with those memories playing in my head like a horror flick.
Running the familiar path through the thick forest surrounding the cabin, I try to calm my thoughts. Try to shuffle them back in order again. My head always gets messier this time of year. In just a few days it is the anniversary of the worst night of my life. Unlike most anniversaries, it is not a day I look forward to of course. Not a day I celebrate all that I lost.
Losing my mother and both of my siblings all at once was a blow I never thought I would recover from. In some ways I am still not over it. I have these nightmares, I can’t let anyone in my life get too close. I became a firefighter just so I could repent for not saving my family. For not being there when they needed me most.
“Morning, Pace,” a voice calls, jarring me out of mythoughts.
Blinking in the dim morning light, I smile at Tison as he sits on his front porch, sucking at his stogie. We’ve been neighbors for a few years and yet my runs past his place, while he is sitting alone on his porch, are the few interactions we’ve had. Maybe I ought to stop by with some beers sometime or invite him to my place to watch a game, but I have never made the effort.
“Morning Tison. How’s it going?”
Tison just tilts his steaming mug of coffee at me, tipping his head. I suppose that means it's going ok. Giving him a return jerk of my head, I smile. Men can be so simple. Several other guys live up here on the mountain, keeping to themselves, not venturing out much besides to work or hit town for a beer now and again.
Some of them take a woman back to one of the two hotels in town from time to time. I’ve never done that myself. Not that I’ve never come close. There have been a few women who’ve caught my eye over the years, pretty redheads or beautiful blondes. I just never believed it was worth the trouble. Not that they would bring me trouble.
I am plenty of trouble all on my own.
Running through the woods wakes me up, helping to shake off that nightmare. After the fire, they came every single night. It took a long time, and a lot of therapy, for me to sleep through the night. Since I came to Ashwood to find my place, to settle here on the mountain, it has been a lot easier. Even if I made the mistake of doing the dumbest thing possible.
My nightmares have changed in the past few years. Because I was fool enough to become a volunteer firefighter. It seemed like the right thing to do. To have a chance to save a few homes, a few families, even if I had not been able to save my own. It is my way of paying penance for my failure. Nowmy nightmares include new faces, new shouts of terror, and new failures.
I’ve not lost anyone since I’ve been volunteering, but there’s been some close calls. Some badly burned kids at a campground stuck with me for a while. We just didn’t get there in time to save them from damage, though we did save all their lives—and their historic teepee where the fire began. Still, those kids cries, and their scarred bodies, haunt me along with my mother, my sister, and my brother.
“Get out of your head, Pace,” I tell myself, picking up my speed.
My lungs burn and my legs ache by the time I make it back to my cabin. Running is a way I shake off the sadness, the emptiness, the loneliness of having no one left. I suppose I could let people in, but I am still grieving the loss of everything I knew. It’s been long enough according to most folks, including some of the guys I fight fires with.
Standing beneath a hot shower, I do my best to let the tension of the morning fade. Need to shake this shit off and start my day. There are no days off in my world. If I am not fighting fires or saving kittens out of trees, I am up here working at my shop. This cabin and my meager lifestyle were afforded by the sculptures I create. It is the one thing I always did for myself, that now pays the bills and puts some food in my belly.
“Come on, Smokie, let’s go to work, girl,” I call down the hall. I wait for a moment before I hear the big Bullmastiff’s paws thumping on the hardwood as she rushes for the front door. There is no leaving her behind.
“Hey, girl. Come on, let’s go do something worthy, huh?”
