TWELVE

My dad grabbed my upper arm and jerked me sharply backwards. "Liz."

I stared at the house I've grown up in, being devoured by hungry fire, with tears blurring my vision. My whole body was trembling with fear, and panic was racing through my veins.

"No," I cried and ripped out of his grip. I swirled to look at him and was only momentarily taken aback by the matching fear on his face, before I pointed towards the house and cried, "Is mom in there?"

"I'm gonna call 911," my dad answered, his voice raspy and unrecognizable.

I found myself frustrated and angry with his reply and I repeated with a tearing sob, "Is she?"

"You need to wait here," my dad said, still ignoring the question he couldn't answer. "Don't go any closer to the house."

"We have to help her," I yelled and started towards the house.

My dad's arms were instantly around my waist and my back was pressed up against his front. His tight embrace broke the small resolve I still had on my feelings and I went limp in his lock, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Baby," he said against my ear and his voice was surprisingly calm, echoing through my ears as though from a distance. "I'm gonna try and get closer and see if there's anyone at home, okay? And call 911. But you," he placed a light kiss on my cheek and I squeezed my eyes tightly shut against the onslaught of love it brought, "need to stay here. Okay?" He slowly released the grip on my body and I struggled to remain standing as he took a step back. "Promise me?"

I looked up at the burning house, watched small pieces of my home fly off in the morning wind as they burnt brightly with ember, and knew that it wasn't a promise I would be able to keep.

But still, I nodded. "I promise."

"Stay here," my dad repeated with emphasis and I nodded again, my eyes glued to my worst nightmare.

I was partially aware of my dad getting into the car to retrieve his cell phone as my eyes landed on the balcony. My balcony. The one that was big enough to be a terrace, situated on top of the dining area of the restaurant below. My eyes moved to the windows of my bedroom, the intact windows of my bedroom. There was no smoke coming from my room; the fire had not reached it. Yet.

Looking at the entrance to our home, to the side of the restaurant, I realized that the small window next to the front door was cracked letting me know that the heat was too great to be confined. Alas, the front door was not a good way in.

But my room was.

I glanced behind me and saw my dad's back turned towards me, holding the phone to his ear.

The only thing that was going through my mind when I turned my eyes back towards the fire was that I had to save mom. Considering how fast this fire was eating through our house, the fire department would be too late.

I only had a split second to decide what to do, but the promise to my dad was not a difficult one to break.

I took a deep breath and ran. My goal was the ladder going up to my balcony.

I didn't look back to see if anyone (my dad) was following me. Once I got closer to the house, I couldn't hear if anyone was following me; the sound of fire munching on organic material was too loud.

I couldn't tell you how I got up the ladder or into my room, but I suddenly found myself staring at the doorknob separating me from the rest of the house. The smoke was creeping into my room and I was already having trouble breathing.

Coughing, I pulled the hem of my sweater down over my hand (old movie knowledge told me that the knob would be warm) before closing it around the handle. The heat spread through the hem and the lock shivered as I lost the grip, basically propelling the knob out of locked position.

I pushed on the door with my foot and pulled the sweater up to cover my mouth. The black smoke swirled around me, attacking me like a dense wall until it flowed freely around me, greedily seeking the oxygen seeping in from my bedroom.

I started coughing, the smoke obscured my vision and made my eyes tear. I blinked, trying to see where I was. But it was dark. So dark.

"Mom," I called out, unintentionally opening an entrance for the smoke to my lungs and I coughed violently, my heart freezing in fear as the heat increased around my body.

I felt my way through the TV-room, stumbling against the edge of our armchair, afraid that my hands would encounter the softness of a human body. What if my mom was really here? Lying dead on the floor?

My lungs were aching, I couldn't see a thing, and I was getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen in the carbon dioxide enriched environment. I was bumping my shins, my knees and my thighs into various pieces of furniture, but I didn't notice. I was following the heat like a guiding beacon. The saying of you're getting warmer… had taken on a new meaning.

"Mom," I croaked. My vocal cords were already suffering the repercussions of inhaling the smoke, and there was no chance in hell that anyone could hear me over the noise of the fire.

I was starting to question what I was doing here.

Maybe mom had already made it out. Maybe she hadn't even been in the house when the fire had begun.

But still - it was too early in the morning for her to be anywhere else but here.

I stumbled, the oxygen-deprived dizziness increasing. My legs felt heavy, my head was throbbing and I felt like I was breathing acid.

I didn't have time to react as one of the roof beams cracked, having been partly dissolved by the fire, and fell down on the left side of my body.

The pain was immeasurable. Indescribable. The flames licking the beam hungrily attacked my clothes, ruthlessly ignored the pain from my broken arm underneath and the third degree burns that were already forming where the flames was melting my skin.

"Mom!" I cried out, my heart beating in panic as adrenaline and pain mixed and shot up every nerve ending of my body.

I fell to my side and screamed (but there was no more sound from my smoke-damaged throat) as I tried to extinguish the flames devouring the clothes on the left side of my body with only the palm of my right hand.

I'm gonna die here. I'm gonna die.

Something decided to show me mercy at that moment; instead of being consciously burnt alive, the smoke pushed me into oblivion.

The smell of my own burning flesh was the last thing I remembered.


A terrible hoarse scream, from the deepest pits of agony, pulled me out of my state of unconsciousness.

It hurt.

It hurt. It hurt.

"Jesus. Liz."

My skin was burning. I was burning.

The scream surrounded me again and if my skin had been capable it would've formed goosebumps. But my skin was red and blistered; stripped of its normal functions.

I had yet to open my eyes. I didn't want to face the scream. My energy was focused on cramping every cell in my body in desperate attempt to fight the pain.

I couldn't breathe. My lungs hurt, the pain pressed down on my ability to ventilate.

"What were you doing in there?"

I vaguely registered the nausea in that voice beneath the all-consuming fear.

I tried to tighten my fists, my nails scraped against concrete, some breaking in the process.

Concrete.

I felt the wind blow against my face - my burning face - and heard cars in the background.

Outside. I was outside.

I forced my eyes opened and found Max Evans staring down at me. I hitched on my breath at the sight of his burnt face. He was burnt. Was he the one screaming? What had happened to him?

"Liz," he whispered and I felt the saltiness of my own tears sting my cheeks.

I saw him lift his hands to touch my face, but he stopped just an inch from touching me.

"How could you be so stupid?" he asked, anger in those dark eyes of his. But the fear was still there. Fear about my condition?

What condition was I in exactly? How badly was I hurt?

I was sure every single one of my nerves must've been severed to cause so much throbbing, burning and slicing pain throughout my whole body.

"Mom," I croaked, looking at him desperately.

He looked ready to throw up as he looked at me quietly. "You need to focus on you now."

"No," I replied stubbornly and tried to will my body to move. "Mom…needs…my-"

The pain hit me full force and I screamed, my whole body spasming against the pain, as tears paved their way down my cheeks.

His hands gripped my wrists, causing a transitory sharp pain as pressure was applied to my scorched skin, but the pain quickly ebbed, the renewed scream dying on my lips.

"Stay still," he ordered.

"Find my mom," I sobbed, my throat aching from every syllable.

"First you," he answered and I wanted to push him away. Wanted to yell at him for not saving my mom. For wasting his time on me. I was dead anyway. I didn't want to continue living with the pain, with the damages that had probably been done to my body.

But I had no strength to push him away.

"I hate you," I whispered, my voice breaking.

He looked at me evenly and said softly, "You can hate me all you want. I'm not letting you die."

But you're letting my mom die.

I didn't have a chance to say it though before he continued, "You need to look at me. Straight into my eyes. Don't blink."

My burning lungs were chronically depriving me of oxygen and my thoughts were made increasingly confused and blurry. But I found no trouble obeying him. I was afraid that my body and mind would sink into nothingness if I let go of his eyes.

"Lizzie?"

It was the first time he had called me by my nickname. It made me feel safe. That simple nickname made me put my life in his hands. Quite literally.

"Okay," I breathed, highly aware of the comfortable pressure of his palms against my wrists. It was the only part of my body that wasn't hurting.

"Okay," he agreed and I felt the tremble from his hands against my wrists as he inhaled deeply.

I thought Max Evans always looked at me intently. But, oh, how wrong I'd been. Apparently, there were several degrees to his ability to pour his emotions out of his eyes and into mine. The way he was looking into my eyes was beyond cheesy, beyond romantic, beyond soul-mate stuff. His look was almost primal, burrowing into my very soul and I could feel him falling into me. Blending us together.

My breath hitched.

His hands jumped against my wrists.

I was one hundred percent aware of him leaning over me, of his hands leaving my wrists and brushing up my burnt arms, but I failed to react. His touch against my markedly over-sensitized skin didn't even hurt. There was another heat spreading in the wake of his hands, a comfortable and soothing heat.

That's when the images started.

"That's her, isn't it?" an 8-year-old Michael asked behind my shoulder.

"Yes," I replied, following the brown-haired girl with my eyes. She was so pretty.

"She doesn't look that special," Michael said casually.

"Dad says she is," I replied, watching the girl play with a blonde girl on the swings.

"Just because her mom-"

"I think she is," I interrupted, feeling drawn to the dark-haired beauty. "She's special."

Michael snorted behind me and I felt heat creep up my neck as he started singing, "Liz and Max, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

I gasped, inhaled sharply, my back arching, before another memory that wasn't mine assaulted me.

"What are you doing?" Liz sobbed, tears glistening in her large brown eyes, as her bottom lip trembled.

I swallowed and felt myself shake with nausea and guilt. What were we doing?

"Dad…" I pleaded.

"Quiet," my father ordered harshly, putting one collection tube of blood on the table, before retrieving another one off the bed.

"I want mom," Liz whispered and I took a step towards her fearful figure and dropped to my knees next to her.

Carefully I reached for her hand. She flinched at my intention, but let me take it.

"It's gonna be okay," I assured her, my 9-year-old self falling into her frightened eyes.

She chewed on her bottom lip, large tears falling down her cheeks, dripping onto the sheet tucked around her body.

We were in her bedroom, in the middle of the night, intruding.

"Son," my dad said. "You can do this one."

I felt myself go cold. No. I didn't. I didn't want to be part of this.

My dad sighed impatiently at my hesitancy and, with a glance at my hand grasping Liz's, ground out in irritation, "You want to help her, right?"

I nodded slowly, her large eyes burning into the side of my neck.

"Then heal her."

I looked at where the thick needle had punctured Liz's skin. Liz's thin light skin was already turning yellow with the first signs of a large bruise around the puncture hole.

It was my 'job' to erase the puncture hole and the imminent bruising.

I swallowed nervously and leaned across Liz, placing my palm into the inside of her elbow.

Max's face swam in front of me. I could see the strain on his face, the sweat droplets tracing the burns on his own face. I could feel the trembles in his hands as he moved them across my body, touching me like no one had ever touched me.

I inhaled sharply, my lungs feeling better, as my vision disappeared and I was propelled into another memory.

"No…"

I looked at the flames licking the outside of the windows and the smoke engulfing the building. And with a sinking heart I saw Liz climb the ladder to her balcony and disappear into her room.

My heart stopped and ice-cold fear spread through my body. My fists tightened against the sides of my body, but I didn't waste a second on making a decision. Never thought about the risks.

If Liz was going in there, so was I.

He gasped and practically slumped on top of me. I inhaled a deep, painless breath, and tried to collect my feelings and thoughts.

What the hell had just happened?

"Max?" I asked, the heaviness of his body on top of mine worrying me.

He groaned and lifted slightly off me.

"You're okay," he stated in a strained whisper.

There was something wrong about his face, about the listlessness of his eyes, about the massive trembles rushing through his body.

I swallowed, "Max?"

He blinked slowly and managed to pull himself up into a seated position.

"You're okay now," he repeated with a relieved breath.

I followed his movement, sitting up next to him, and grabbed his hand. "Max, what did you do? What the hell did you do?"

Maybe it was not the right time to interrogate him, but I would bet my hat that Max Evans had just healed me. Brought me back from life-threatening injuries. And I was pretty certain that I had just been able to see into Max's mind.

Which was insane.

Max looked ready to faint. He tried to pull his hand away, but it shook so badly from exertion that he failed in that regard. I felt my inquisitive nature being muted and my concern for him exponentially increasing.

"Are you okay?" I whispered, wanting to touch his face, run my fingers across his body to look for more injuries. But the burn wounds on his face stopped me. My touch would only hurt him.

He took a shuddering breath, his upper body swaying, "You can't tell anyone."

Tell them what? I didn't even understand what had just happened.

"You don't look so good," I said worriedly.

"Call my dad," Max said faintly, before his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he collapsed against me.