Star-crossed Betas
Prologue
T he horrible sensation dredges up an old memory I had long forgotten. I was only a child, maybe eight years old at the time. I had woken up in the middle of the night, unable to move a muscle or make a noise. Silent tears soaked my cheeks as I hoped and wished my dad would come and find me and make the awful feeling of being locked in my mind go away.
The next morning, when I had reawoken, this time to the sun shining through the gaps in my jungle-themed curtains, it felt like nothing more than a bad dream. The nightmare had faded into the recesses of my mind, and this was the first time I’d thought of that night since.
This feels almost the same but different. It’s worse somehow that I can open my eyes and look around the room, but my muscles are frozen in place.
In my periphery, the flames are spreading along the carpet, licking at the hem of the curtains, hundreds of fiery tongues eating through the fabric rapidly. Too rapidly. My eyes close instinctively, the thick, relentless smoke making them red-raw.
If I’m lucky, the smoke will kill me before the fire does. Bile rises up my oesophagus at the thought of being awake when the flames engulf me. I’ve never considered myself to be particularly morbid, rarely dwelling on how I might eventually die. In contrast, I currently find myself evaluating and ranking what kind of death would be preferable over another. In the face of being burned alive, I can confirm that I would take most of the alternatives right about now.
Except maybe a death involving a deadly spider—I really hate spiders.
With nothing to do but lie here and wait for it all to be over, my overactive brain won’t switch off. I find myself praying the authorities discover my body before he does. Nobody should have to find their loved one’s charred remains in the bed they shared together.
Part of me regrets that we argued earlier, and he’s pissed off with me, but that’s why I’m alone while he’s out running off his bad temper. I've also never been so grateful for his short fuse because, although it won’t be fun to die here by myself, it would be a hundred times worse to watch him suffer by my side. He’ll be furious with me for dying before him, but I’m grateful he’ll have a long life ahead of him.
When I reopen my eyes, the curtains are fully ablaze. The bedroom window makes a loud cracking noise, shattering from the intense heat. I try to take deep breaths, inhaling as much of the smoke as I can, willing it to end my life before the fire does. My chest rattles when I cough, and my eyes burn and water furiously.
Closing my eyes once more, I decide it’s probably best to keep them that way. All I can do is wait and see what takes me first—the smoke or the flames.