I Remember the Fire
I Remember the Fire It always starts with the church. I don’t know where it is, or if it even exists. But in my dreams, I’m always standing outside of it. Watching it burn. The flames crawl up the steeple like they’ve been waiting for this moment. The wood cracks. The windows shatter. And the screaming starts. I don’t know who they are — the people inside. I can never see their faces. Just voices. Dozens. Hundreds. Crying. Begging. I try to run to the door. I always do. But my feet don’t move. My body feels heavy. Like I’m part of the ground. I can feel the heat, but it never touches me. I just watch. Frozen. And then someone turns around. Someone behind me. A man. But I never see his face. Just his hand — reaching out, like he wants me to follow him. Or stop him. Or... something. Then I wake up. Every time. My hands shaking. My skin cold. And the smell of smoke still in my throat. I’m writing this down because I’m scared that one day I’ll forget it. And I don’t want to forget. No...