Chapter Five
Past—Five Weeks After The Fire.
I saunter down the street from the twins’ house, grimacing as the fabric of my clothes rubs against the bandages all over my body.
Five long weeks have passed since the fire.
During those weeks, I stayed in the hospital recovering from second- and third-degree burns.
Multiple areas required immediate skin grafts, which they sourced from my inner thighs for the repairs.
I annihilated the right side of my body.
The doctor’s guess was it happened when I knocked down the bedroom door and threw my right arm up to shield myself from the flames that burst through.
The only good thing was that it protected my face.
Somehow, it was unscathed, while I now have permanent scars from the top of my neck, down my right side and stomach, stopping just before my belly button.
My entire right arm, including my hand, was damaged.
I had thought I had died in the fire. I didn’t even realize I was in intensive care until the following evening.
As soon as I opened my eyes to the sound of the hospital monitor beeping, everything began to both unravel and come together.
Eric and the twins stood by my bed, their faces etched with horror.
I was in a state of hysteria, overwhelmed by a mix of pain and dread.
Because of the wounds on my right arm and side, they could not use restraints, opting instead for heavy sedatives.
After that, the days seemed to blur together.
I recall them checking in regularly and sitting by my bedside, but it was Beck I remembered the most. She was always there, right by my side.
They released me just yesterday, and advised me to take it easy since I still have many months to recover.
Eric insisted I shouldn’t leave the house or engage in any heavy activities in the meantime.
Despite his concerns, I felt compelled to do this.
I need to see what’s left behind. The twins offered to come for support, but I refused their offer. I needed to do this alone.
I stand in the driveway, my heart heavy as I look at the charred remains before me.
The remnants of my home are nothing but an abandoned wasteland, reduced to gray ashes and debris.
Scorched beams of wood lie scattered, while fragments of the walls still stand.
Bright yellow caution tape flutters gently in the breeze, marking the perimeter where the house once stood.
The crisp fall air, tinged with the scent of wet earth, mingles with the faintest hint of lingering smoke.
It’s clear that at some point, rain had washed over part of the wreckage, blurring the edges of what remains, almost like nature itself mourned the loss alongside me.
I take a deep breath as I walk toward the devastation.
My heart pounds with each step, the soles of my shoes are already coated in fine black particles as I sift through the debris.
I scan the area, hoping to find something salvageable, but my search comes up with nothing.
Now, I stand where my bedroom once was, flooded with memories of my final moments here.
I gaze toward the spot where the window used to be, recalling my mom perched on the edge of my bed, her finger brushing my forehead to sweep away stray strands of hair.
I glance over and spot the box spring from my bed.
My eyes dart around, searching for the knife.
I rush over, kicking through the rubble.
Not caring about my bandages, I dig with my hands.
The knife was in its same spot, wedged between the mattress and the box springs; it should’ve fallen between them during the fire.
Whatever was left of it, but I find nothing.
Anger surges through me as I try to process the chaos surrounding me.
There’s not a single item left to remind me of my mother.
My uncle had come to visit for my birthday, and I wasn’t even here.
Three Minutes changed everything. They both died for nothing.
A wave of heat rises in me, and I let out a loud cry that echoes in the open space.
I grab the box spring and hurl it as far as I can, forgetting about the pain that throbs through my body.
My hands ball into tight, trembling fists as I attempt to catch my breath.
Raising my hands, I stare at the black soot clinging to my nail beds.
With my head hanging low in silent defeat, I make my way to the spot where I last saw them—where their lifeless bodies clung to one another.
The image is etched in my mind, sharp and haunting.
My heart crumbles in my chest as a rush of overwhelming emotions floods my thoughts.
I collapse hard onto my knees, running my hands through the black death that surrounds me.
A flood of questions swirls within me, each one clawing at my insides with relentless urgency.
How did this tragedy unfold? Why was the bedroom door shut?
Did they die quickly? Or was it a slow, painful death being claimed by the flames?
The reports claim a catastrophic gas leak started the fire.
Yet, answers slip through my fingers like smoke.
The examiner couldn’t uncover the exact truth behind their deaths; all that remained were charred remnants, both unrecognizable.
There is no evidence to piece together the shattered puzzle of that night.
All the questions I so desperately need answered perished along with my mom and Jesse.
My hands clasp together in front of me as I close my eyes, falling forward and resting my forehead against them.
The horrible smell of burned plastic and wood singes my nostrils.
I imagine their last moments alive. They must have been so scared.
What haunts me most is how they were found holding each other—like they knew they were going to die, with no choice but to accept it and be there for each other.
I never got to say goodbye to either of them.
My last interaction with my mom was just a brief text exchange, right before I became too wrapped up in being buzzed and losing my virginity to my childhood best friend, just two streets away from home.
Meanwhile, she and Jesse were tortured in flames.
The weight of that truth hits me like a ton of bricks, and a sob escapes my lips as an unbearable ache tightens around my throat.
I chew on my bottom lip, desperately trying to steady my trembling features.
I loathe myself for all of this. I’ll never truly heal or find it in my heart to forgive myself for what happened.
A cool breeze brushes against the back of my neck, sending a ripple of goosebumps down my spine.
I tilt my head to the left, drawn by a flash of vibrant color that catches my eye.
I quickly blink away the fresh tears, trying to refocus my vision.
Everything around me feels dreary and gray today, including the sky.
A short distance away, a butterfly sits, its colors striking and full of life.
I watch in awe as it gracefully flutters its wings.
I push myself to my feet, brushing away the debris clinging to my arms and pants.
The bandages on my right arm and hand are now smudged with black.
As I draw closer, I discover it’s a monarch butterfly.
Its wings blaze a vibrant orange, reminiscent of flames, with a striking black outline that highlights the delicate white spots at the tips.
I kneel slowly, just a foot away, captivated by its beauty.
Thoughts of my mother flood my mind. She adored these butterflies and what they represented.
A wave of memories washes over me as I continue to gaze at the butterfly.
Mom and I walk through her flowers in the backyard.
I make sure to listen as she names each flower, brushing her fingers against the silky petals.
As a six-year-old, I couldn’t care less about the flowers and their names, but seeing her light up when she talks about them makes me happy.
Today has been a good birthday so far. The sun is shining, and it’s warm outside.
Dad didn’t come home last night, but that’s okay.
I like it better when it’s just my mom and me here, or when my uncle Jesse stops by for a visit, anyway.
“Ezra! Come here, look!” Mom shouts. “Isn’t it beautiful?” I stand beside Mom, glancing at the butterfly sitting on a blue flower. “It’s a monarch butterfly. It will migrate soon with its other friends. It’s actually a little early this time of year.”
I watch as Mom gently places her finger near the flower it sits on. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Shhh, just watch, honey.” We both sit quietly, never taking our eyes off the butterfly.
For what feels like forever, it crawls onto my mom’s hand, gently flapping its wings.
Mom lets out a soft gasp. “You know…after you were born, the nurses brought you over for me to hold you for the first time. You were a tiny little thing then. I held you so close to my chest, just amazed at how cute you were. You were the calmest baby, barely even cried when you were born.”
My eyes light up. “Really?”
She smiles and nods at me. “It was a beautiful day, too, like today. I rocked you in my arms, looking out the window. The sky was a bright blue, with not a cloud in sight. And suddenly, there it was.” I stay quiet for a moment, waiting for her to continue.
She laughs through her nose. “A monarch butterfly.
It flew onto the window and stayed there for a good while.
It was so beautiful, like you. I knew little about them at the time, but when we were released from the hospital, I researched them.
“They symbolize a new life being born, strength, and so much more. And I knew right then that you were special. My little resilient butterfly.” She lightly taps the tip of my nose with her free pointer finger.
“Some even say that it means a loved one who has passed is visiting to say hello.” Mom wraps her arm around me and puts her other hand in the air.
The butterfly clings on a moment longer before flying away.
We both stood silently and watched it until we could no longer see it.
I shake my head, fighting back the new tears that beg to fall.
I refocus on the butterfly. My eyes catch a glimpse of something shiny beneath it.
I crouch down, carefully extending my hand near the butterfly.
Almost immediately, it clings to the tips of my fingers—so delicate, yet so resilient.
I lift my arm higher and watch as the butterfly flutters gracefully off toward the woods.
Returning my gaze to the shiny object, I bend down and pick it up, brushing off the dirt as best I can.
My heart sinks when I see what it is—my father’s Zippo lighter.
I turn it over in my hand, recalling the skull design on the front.
He always carried it with him. My thoughts drift back to the night he left.
I have no way of knowing whether he took it with him, everything happened so quickly.
Maybe Mom discovered it after he was gone and tucked it away somewhere safe.
What bothers me most is where I found it.
It wasn’t in a dresser or stored away somewhere.
Its location suggests it was lying on the floor near the main bathroom entrance.
Unless my mom had taken it out, or perhaps she had given it to my uncle at some point, and he had it with him that night.
My thoughts whirl in a chaotic storm of confusion.
I slowly pull the silver lid back, flicking the wheel with my thumb.
Mesmerized, I gaze into the flickering glow.
I extend my left palm above the flame, its radiance illuminating my skin.
As I lower my hand closer, the warmth envelops me, similar to the searing touch of fire against flesh.
But soon after, a sharp, creeping pain snatches at my wrist, urging me to jerk the Zippo away.
I draw in several shaky breaths, the air feeling thin in my chest, and with a decisive clink, I snap the lid shut.
I flex my hand, looking at the red burn on my palm that has formed.
No matter how hard my body tries to heal, this injury has become a part of me.
The fire and pain will always linger in my life.
They reside within me now, and I was never meant to escape them.
I raise my gaze toward the woods, where a gnawing feeling tugging at my chest tells me he’s out there somewhere, watching.
He promised me that our time wasn’t over.
I know the truth will eventually come to light, and I’ll likely have to confront that truth—confront him.