The Fireproof Girl

by Loretta Lost

  But perhaps that’s why she has all the more reason to cry. She never got to know him as well as she could have, and all their potential years together have been stolen. The potential of a thing is often more beautiful than the actual thing itself. But not in this case. The years spent with Cole would have been more magical and filled with love, laughter, and excitement than she can even imagine.

  She should cry. And so should I.

  “Mrs. Hunter,” says a voice from behind me. “Do you have a minute to discuss your husband?”

  I glance over my shoulder to see the detective standing beside Zack. I turn back to the grave without responding. Moving closer, and stepping around the casket, I study the letters carved into the tombstone.

  Cole Hunter

  1987-2016

  Extraordinary architect, husband, friend

  No. No. No! This can’t be right. Why would anyone do this? It doesn’t make sense. I shouldn’t be standing here right now, and looking at this offensive piece of rock. It’s a lie. It’s blasphemy. Who dared to carve such revolting words into stone? There must be some mistake. I reach out, tracing the letters of his name, searching for an error. C-O-L-E. The letters are etched so clearly, so carefully, and the edges are sharp under my fingertips. If there’s an error in spelling, doesn’t it mean that this is all a mistake? Doesn’t it mean that Cole isn’t really here, in this casket? H-U-N…

  I stop then, and let my hand fall to my side. I turn to let my eyes dart madly between the other people standing around the grave, making fleeting eye contact with each of them. I’m searching; searching for something, and I’m not sure what. My lips are parted slightly, questioningly.

  “Mrs. Hunter,” the detective says again. “It would be very helpful to the investigation, if you have any time to spare…”

  “She doesn’t care,” Annabelle says bitterly. “Look at her. She doesn’t care at all!”

  I turn back to look at this woman who is accusing me of something so vicious. For a moment, rage floods my chest and causes my ears to burn. I imagine putting my hands around her neck and choking the life out of her. How dare she say such a thing? If only she knew how much I care.

  Miranda gently pulls her back from the grave, and steps in front of her. I am not sure if she is protecting Annabelle from my harsh glare, or protecting me from her harsh words.

  “Scarlett, honey,” says Mr. Bishop. “Will you throw the dirt onto Cole’s coffin?”

  I look down at the dirt, and back up at the Jewish man. The tradition must be important to him. He has known Cole even longer than I have, since he was a small boy. I suddenly realize that I must look emotionless and terrible to all of these people. I am terrible. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve to live. And why would I want to? Without him? I have barely been living at all. I have been just going through the motions. I have been doing all the things I think I should do, and none of the things I actually want.

  Placing my hand on my purse, I think of the gun inside. I close my eyes briefly, imagining it. Death has always been so seductive and peaceful. No more pain, no more noise. And Cole is already there, ahead of me, as usual. He wanted me to come home, and live with him again. But failing that, and since it’s too late… could I be buried here with him?

  Glancing at Mr. Bishop, I realize that I never made that will.

  Thinking about suicide as an adult is very different from thinking of it as a child. Mainly because of stuff. You have all these belongings that need to be properly distributed, and it feels like it’s wrong to die without doing the paperwork first. Then that paperwork becomes one more chore that never gets completed, and by the time you have a chance to get around to it—the moment is gone, and you no longer want to die.

  But one of the major benefits of suicide is that you no longer need to do paperwork once dead. So putting off death until the paperwork is done kind of defeats the whole purpose of dying. I feel fairly confident in Mr. Bishop. He’ll take care of things for me. The whole point of dying is to be free, and untethered. And to show everyone, including Cole, that I care. I care so much about him that I don’t care about anything else at all.

  I slide my hand into my purse, reaching for the gun.

  Zack immediately moves to my side and touches my wrist. “So—” he begins, but catches himself, “Mrs. Hunter. Weren’t you saying that you were free to meet with the detective around noon?”

  I was saying something like that. But that was before. Zack’s voice is easy to ignore.

  My fingers close around the gun, and I am comforted by the cool metal grip.

  As I look down at the casket, I imagine Cole’s body lying inside. I try to picture the gunshot wounds. “Miranda?” I ask softly. “Where was he shot?”

  She pauses before responding. “In the head, dear.”

  “How many times?”

  “Twice.”

  I think it would be poetic if I shot myself in the head, to mirror Cole’s injuries. But I don’t think I can manage to do it twice. Once will have to be enough. I am sure that it would make a good headline. My only concern is that Zack is standing rather close to me, and his hand is touching my wrist. His body looks poised to grab me if I try anything. I knew I shouldn’t have shared my intentions with him. Releasing the gun, I pull out a napkin instead, and hand it to Zack.

  “Please give this to Miss Nelson,” I instruct him.

  He seems wary and hesitant to move away, but he knows that handing the napkin to the crying woman would be the polite thing to do.

  “Throw the dirt,” Zack orders me softly, “on his grave. They’re all waiting for you.”

  I know he is trying to distract me, but I do feel like it’s the appropriate thing to do. For Mr. Bishop, at least. I lower myself to the ground, as gracefully as I can in my black dress, until I am kneeling beside the grave. I reach for the dirt, and gather up a very large handful. A few small trails of sandy material slide out of my fingers, and I stare at them thoughtfully.

  No. I’m not going to throw the dirt.

  That would be saying goodbye. I refuse to say goodbye.

  I let the sand fall back into the pile, and I push my dirty hand into my purse. I can already feel the bullet entering my brain. Where should I aim it from? Under my chin? Into my eye? Inside my mouth? My temple? Yes, the temple is the classiest choice. I see Zack moving toward me, so I know that I need to be fast. My hand is shaking, but I need to do this. I inhale sharply.

  I don’t care anymore.

  Pulling the gun from my purse, I slam the cold metal nozzle into the side of my head. I shut my eyes and begin to press down on the trigger when the oddest thing happens. Amongst Miranda screaming, and Mr. Bishop yelling, there is something else. Another sound. Another… sensation. I am a whisper away from freedom when curiosity hijacks my finger; just for a millisecond. It is the most difficult thing in the world to do, once I have begun, but I pause.

  I pause just to make sure that I’m not imagining things. Just to make sure that I haven’t really gone insane. In that pause, I realize that my chest is heaving with frightened breaths, and there are tears sliding down my cheeks.

  And the earth is shaking.

  I open my eyes, just in time to see Zack knock my hand away from my skull, and wrestle the gun out of my hand. But it doesn’t take much wrestling, because my hand has grown limp. I am staring at the freshly dug dirt around the gravesite. It is trembling. The tiny rocks are moving—dancing. Shivers of amazement and understanding run through my spine. I watch Miranda grab Mr. Bishop’s arm for support, and Annabelle stumble backwards in her heels and fall flat onto her ass.

  Is this real? Yes. The earth is shaking.

  Tingles spread from within my chest to my fingers and toes. My whole body hums to life with electricity and… hope. Tilting my chin upward, my eyes move to gaze at the sky, as tears begin streaming from them endlessly. I fear I must look like a cartoon character in one of Cole’s anime shows. But also, a smile touches my lips. I remember wha
t Cole said to me in my dream earlier today.

  “Thought I told you, Scar. I’m indestructible.”

  I begin to laugh softly as I watch and feel the earth shudder. I place both of my palms flat on the ground, as though I am soaking up the power of the earthquake. It’s a sign. It has to be. I laugh. I laugh loudly. I laugh hysterically.

  “He’s not dead,” I declare to everyone in the vicinity, as the earthquake dissipates. “He’s not dead!”

  “Scarlett,” Miranda says softly, as she covers her face with both hands. “Oh, honey.”

  “You crazy bitch!” Annabelle shouts. “Who brings a gun to a funeral?”

  Crawling forward, toward the grave, I reach for the casket which has not yet been fully lowered into the ground. I try to pry it open with my bare hands. “He’s not in here!” I say with utter conviction. “He can’t be. He’s not dead. He’s not.”

  I feel myself being pulled away from the casket and restrained by two large men. I struggle, but a pair of handcuffs are being roughly locked onto me. “Stop!” I shout, wrestling against them. “Open the casket! I need to see what’s inside. Miranda! Open the casket!” When she stares at me with wide eyes of disbelief, I begin screaming. “Cole isn’t in there! You don’t know him. None of you know him! He’s too strong. He’s too strong to be killed by a fucking bullet!”

  “Mrs. Hunter,” says Detective Rodriguez calmly. “I think it’s a good time to bring you into the station now. We need to ask you some questions, and give you a chance to calm down.”

  “I’ll come with her,” Zack says at once, tightening his grip on my left arm. “I’m sorry about this, Detective. She hasn’t been dealing with this whole situation very well.”

  The detective grunts as he begins dragging me back to his police car. “We will need to keep her in custody for a while. Then we’ll have her committed to a psychiatric facility.”

  “Understandable,” Zack responds softly.

  “I’m not crazy!” I shout at him, kicking him in his prosthetic leg with my new high heel, and causing him to stumble. “Cole’s alive. You better believe it, Zachary.”

  “No, Scarlett. You need help.”

  I am walking cautiously through a darkened hallway. There are doors on either side, and I am holding a metal pole containing an IV bag that is attached to my arm.

  “Cole,” says a female voice, echoing in the distance. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I say in response as I head toward the sound. “Where are you?”

  “Please come and find me. Hurry.”

  I start moving faster, because it sounds like there is panic in her voice. But as soon as I round a corner, a gust of heat hits me in the face. I raise my arms to protect my eyes and stumble backwards, nearly tripping over my own feet and the metal pole. I grab the wall to steady myself, but the wood is hot to the touch. “Hello?” I call out, confused and afraid. I try to take another step, but smoke enters my lungs and I begin to cough violently.

  The building is burning, and it’s spreading fast. Smoke is seeping into the hallway from under all the doors, and I can feel the heat on my bare feet that indicates the floor below is already ablaze. The tiles beneath me are weakening and growing warped, and I am suddenly paralyzed and rooted to the spot. The structure is collapsing beneath me and falling apart beneath my feet.

  “Cole,” says the woman hoarsely. I can tell she is in real physical pain. “Please! Cole!”

  I overcome my terror and race toward the sound of her voice. “Where are you?” I call out.

  “Over here! Cole, please!”

  Entering one of the doorways, flames immediately surround my entire body. All I can see is fire. I squint and keep moving forward, until her outline becomes clear. The woman is standing in the fire, and she’s reaching out to me. “Cole,” she says, with both hands extended. “Cole, please...”

  She is wearing a white dress. Her hair is dark, and the tendrils at the bottom are all ablaze, with flames traveling up to her ears. Her hair is burning. Her dress is burning. She is going to be consumed. Is it Scarlett? I peer closer.

  “Baby, please help me!”

  It’s my mother.

  My heart sinks. I try to take a step forward, into the toxic thickness of the smoke, but it feels like I am swimming through lava. My mother keeps screaming for me. She keeps screaming as she is burned alive, and there is absolutely nothing I can do. The flames twist and crackle into an inferno that causes the house to disintegrate under me, and I begin falling into blackness. I reach out to grab on to something, trying desperately to move forward so I can help her.

  It seems like all hope is lost, but then I grasp her hand. “Mom!” I call out, gripping her hand tightly with both of mine. I’ll never let go. I’ll save her, somehow. But I squeeze so tightly that her hand turns into ash. “No!” I scream as the cloud of ash filters through my fingers, falling all around me like snow. I breathe her in, tasting the cinders and soot. “No! Come back...”

  The ash falls, and so do I. My arms flail frantically, reaching for something, anything. But I just keep falling. Falling into blackness.

  Falling into oblivion.

  Until I wake up.

  Sitting up abruptly, and gasping for breath, I find myself in blinding pain. I am in a white room, with white sheets covering me. A hospital. I clutch my chest with both hands, and let out a murderous scream at the pain in my chest.

  “He needs to be sedated! Quickly.”

  I see a woman in powder blue scrubs moving to my side and grasping a transparent tube, with a syringe in her hand. “Calm down, Cole,” she says in a gentle voice. “You’re safe now. You’re in the intensive care unit, and you’re going to be fine.”

  The sedatives begin to work quickly, and I fall back against the pillow. “Where’s Scarlett? Where’s my sister? She was badly burned...”

  “She’s healing well. You’re the one who got stabbed. Now, we’re going to need you to rest, okay? When you’re feeling better, the police will need to speak to you, along with the fire department.”

  The fire department. I’ve spoken to the fire department once before. The images from my dream come rushing back to me, and I remember. My mother died. My father died. I failed them. Everyone was dead. I can’t fail another person. Never.

  I can feel myself slipping under, and I grasp for the nurse’s wrist. “Scarlett,” I demand. “I want to see Scarlett. I need to see that she’s safe.”

  “I’ll let her know,” the nurse says softly, touching my forehead. “Just hang in there, kid.”

  “Cole,” says a soft voice.

  I feel a flood of pain throughout my body, and I groan in response.

  “Are you… awake?” she asks me.

  When I pry my eyes open, I see that Scarlett is lying in the hospital bed beside me, with her arms wrapped around my body. There are tears sliding down her cheeks. “I never meant for you to get hurt. I’m so sorry.”

  “Shh,” I tell her, putting my hand in her hair and ruffling it fondly. I grunt at the effort it takes to move my arm. “It’s nothing at all. It’s just a scratch.”

  “Just a scratch? You nearly died.”

  “No way!” I say with a laugh, and my laughter hurts so much that I begin coughing violently. “Didn’t I ever tell you? I’m indestructible! Ouch! Ah, ow, ow, ow, ow.”

  “Somehow, I’m not totally convinced,” Scarlett says, touching my bandages with concern.

  I grip one of my stab wounds, and suck in air sharply through my teeth at the throbbing pain. “Dammit, that hurts. But yeah, I’m totally indestructible. For real.”

  “If you say so,” she says in a skeptical tone, hugging me tightly and burying her face in my shoulder. “I came to your room to visit you dozens of times over the last few days, and you were never awake. You were just... dreaming.”

  “They kept me sedated,” I explain with a groan. “But that’s okay. Dreams are really important to the healing process.”

  “Cole... you were
screaming in your sleep.”

  “Oh. Well,” I say thoughtfully. “When you’re seriously injured, emotionally or physically, you need the most potent and crazy sort of dreams to heal your wounds.”

  “Did I… do something? Did I hurt you?” she asks me haltingly.

  “No. Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I don’t remember very much. Sometimes I have these moments where I get so angry—and then I just black out. I don’t really remember what happens in those moments, but usually, someone gets hurt.”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” I assure her. “Did you talk to the police yet?”

  “Yes. I’m scared, Cole. They’ve been investigating the fire. They said that it’s suspicious that your family died in a fire, and now so did Professor Brown.”

  I sigh, and immediately grimace at the pain from sighing. It seems like I can’t breathe too deeply yet. I wrap my arm around Scarlett and hold her tightly against my side, thankful that she isn’t on the side with the stab wounds. Leaning over, I place a kiss on her forehead, although I groan at the effort it takes to move.

  “Don’t worry about the legal bullshit, Scar. Things will be fine. We will be fine. It was all in self-defense. We have enough evidence of that.”

  “But what if we get in trouble? What if we get separated, Cole? We’ll have to run away. I can help you find a new identity. I’ve done it before. We can plan our escape, as soon as you feel better.”

  “No,” I tell her through gritted teeth. “We’ll never be able to support ourselves without turning to more crime, and then we’ll really get in trouble. We’ll get lost in the system, going straight from foster care to prison. The system is fucked up, and it’s designed to make us fail—but I’m not going to let that happen. I have an inheritance, Scarlett. I have an inheritance that I can access soon. We’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t want to deal with the police and investigations and all this bullshit. Run away with me, Cole. We can live on our own, and I can make it work. Trust me, I can do things…”

  “I know what you can do. But we did nothing wrong, Scar. We’re not going to get in trouble. Trust me. We’re going to be fine.” Another wave of pain hits my chest and I let out a guttural groan while grasping the bandaged areas. “Shit, shit, shit.”