40. When all is said and done and dead, does he love you the way that I do?
Firefly
When I woke up, the first thing I smelled was smoke.
That wasn’t unusual. Vanessa liked to say I was good at bringing my work home with me, and she was right. Between the scenes that haunted my nightmares and the smells of burning buildings that seemed to seep into my very DNA, she had no idea just how right she was.
When my eyes popped open, all I could see were the leaping, climbing flames, creeping up the walls and making their way across the rafters over my head. Soon, they’d eat through the old, rotten wood, and the ceiling and all the floors it held up, would come crashing down on my head.
Part of me—the twisted demon that took up residence in my chest—reveled in the heat and smoke. This, after all, was my playground. This was where the Firefly came out to play, and it grounded me .
Another side of me, the side that felt the comfort of Vanessa’s loving touch and the excitement at the prospect of being a new father, felt a deep-rooted panic that strangled me.
I had to get out of here. I had to get back to her.
The last thing I remembered was pulling up to the warehouse and feeling a sense of dread and unease settling into the pit of my stomach. If it hadn’t been for the needle in my neck, he wouldn’t have gotten the better of me, but he knew he couldn’t face me in a fair fight.
He knew because he’d tried before, and he’d ended up with a broken knee and some snapped ribs.
I’d have taken him apart with my bare hands, and he knew it, which is why he had to resort to chemicals to get me in this chair.
As the flames danced and the smoke thickened, my mind raced with conflicting emotions. If only I had been more vigilant, I would have torn him apart with my bare hands, but he knew he couldn’t face me in a fair fight.
Now, my body ached to break free. The flames grew fiercer, inching closer with every passing second. I knew the old, decaying warehouse wouldn’t hold for much longer.
But I couldn’t leave her alone with a baby. I couldn’t leave her alone to deal with Barrett.
With a surge of determination, I strained against the restraints. The scent of smoke grew stronger, mingling with the acrid flavor of desperation, and I coughed at the taste.
I had faced countless flames before, extinguishing them one by one. I knew the secrets of fire, its weaknesses, and its patterns. I knew I could use it to help me. The Firefly emerged, not as a harbinger of destruction, but as a guiding light, illuminating a path to survival. I focused on the flickering blaze, its movement becoming a dance of possibilities. I analyzed the structure, searching for weaknesses and envisioning a way out.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I twisted in the chair to look behind me, and that’s when I saw it—one of the wooden support beams had caught fire, the flames slowly eating at it as they struggled to rejoin their counterparts further up.
I could use it.
Planting my boots against the floor, I tested with a steady push, and I snorted when the chair pushed back slightly. Could he really have been that stupid?
Thigh muscles tensed and jumping, I continued to push, slowly forcing the chair across the room. I could hear the crackling flames and the snapping and popping as the wood began to give way. I focused on my breathing, remembering my training as I pushed the chair towards the wooden support beam. Sweat dripped down my forehead and into my eyes, but I ignored it, blinking away the sting, my mind solely focused on the task at hand.
With each push, the chair inched closer to the weakened beam. The flames flickered and danced like a macabre ballet.
Finally, the chair reached the compromised support beam. I could see the flames licking at its edges, hungry for more destruction. Without hesitation, I positioned the chair against the beam, using all my might to prop it up.
I could feel the heat licking at my skin, crawling across the chair, and eating at the wooden back. He’d shackled me with metal handcuffs, yet he’d used a wooden chair .
I’d have to teach him a painful lesson about using his common sense.
The flames crept over my hands, tied behind my back, and threaded through the wooden slats. I grit my teeth against the pain, listening to my jaw pop and my teeth grinding. I reminded myself that I needed this—needed the pain to keep me grounded.
As I pulled away, the crackling intensified, and the wood began to snap. It creaked and groaned under the strain, but I knew I couldn’t rely on the fire alone. Time was running out. The smoke was thicker now, making it harder to breathe, and even more difficult to see.
Pulling forward, I twisted one shoulder, then the other, my forearms screaming with pain as I yanked on the hot metal encircling my wrists. Overhead, the ceiling began to groan and yell, warning of its upcoming demise, but I forced myself to ignore it. I couldn’t worry, or let myself panic. I needed to get out of here alive, and I needed to get out soon.
With a sharp crack, one of the back beams gave way, and I was able to slip the cuffs from between them, leaping up out of the chair at the same moment that one of the main ceiling beams rotted through and broke in half, haunting calls screaming behind me as I hurried through the smoke.
Drawing on my training once again, I remembered the emergency exit on the far side of the room. It was a long shot, but it was my only chance. I sprinted towards it, dodging falling debris and navigating through the growing chaos. The smoke clouded my vision, burning my nostrils and leaving my chest feeling tight and heavy .
With a surge of adrenaline, I reached the exit and pushed it open. Fresh air rushed in, providing a momentary relief from the suffocating smoke. I stumbled out into the open, gasping for breath, my boots catching on the gravel and sending me crashing down onto my face, my chin slamming into the ground with so much force that I saw stars.
But I couldn’t stay down for long. I couldn’t let him hurt her.
With Vanessa’s face etched in my mind, I lay panting on the ground, her voice echoing in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest was tight, my throat burning, the smoke still choking me, even if I’d escaped it.
Fuck, I was gonna die.
The air was heavy, the shadows closing in at the edges of my mind.
I was gonna die here.
Worthless!
Memories of my father’s voice floated over me, and I remembered it like it was yesterday. He stumbled in, late, a beer in his hand, and the scent of hard liquor permeating the air around him. I could see his eyes, the same color as mine—the same eyes I saw every day in the mirror—bloodshot and bearing down on me.
Worthless little bastard! You’ll always be just a waste of space!
It was a night when my mother stood there, her shoulders hunched and her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face and merging with the murky dishwater she hovered over. She knew better to get in his way when he was like this. She’d tried before. She’d tried to save me. It landed her in the hospital. That night, like so many before it, he took all of his anger out on me—anger over his failures, his shortcomings, and his displeasure over his life.
I took every blow without a flinch. When I hit the ground, I got back up.
I couldn’t let him win.
I couldn’t lay here and let him hurt her.
“I’m not,” I groaned, forcing myself to sit up, my bloodied palms pressing into the gravel beneath me and bringing a stab of pain rocketing through me. “I’m not a fuckin’ waste of space.”
I flipped onto my back, wiping blood from my nose as I got to my feet and limped in the direction of her embrace, ready to protect our future.