A/N- This chapter took me forever. I know it's been practically a month, but I seriously had no idea what to do with this, and eventually just pushed it to the back of my mind. I have no idea how many more chapters I'd like to do. It's on the fence right now. Anyway, enjoy this one! It's dedicated to Chloe! Or, Chloex93. Happy belated birthday, girly girl! I'm so sorry I didn't have this up sooner. -love- Desireé
Chapter Twenty-One, Realize
I can feel you all around me
Thickening the air I'm breathing
Holding on to what I'm feeling
Savoring this heart that's healing
-'All Around Me', Flyleaf
--
And when he woke up, the world was on fire.
At first, the smell of burning fabric hit slammed into his nostrils, like an addictive drug. Troy realized he was by himself; Arielle was nowhere within sight, but not that he could see very far. Smoke shrouded around him like a magnetic coat, swirling in his eyes and irritating his throat. He stumbled forward, careful of the shrubs of flames planted around the floor. The ceiling was alive with color, ready to fall. Terror began to paralyze every muscle in his body; get your children.
He opened his mouth, thinking to yell for help, but the oxygen had been sucked from the air. The stairs were streaked with blackened holes, gaping holes singed with embers that he carefully avoided as he made his way down to the first floor. "Arielle," he tried to say, coughing in the process. A familiar face appeared: Harris.
"Dad!" He seemed surprised to see his father, as if the teenager had concluded this was how it would all end—in an immeasurable maze of heat. "I-I lost Mom and Arielle—I think they're toward the back of the room, with the storage. I-I'm sorry."
Troy looked around frantically, waving his arms to clear the smoke. The front door flashed in the corner of his eye, and he pushed Harris toward it. "Get outside," he ordered, struggling with his speech.
"I can't leave!" Harris said indignantly, covering his mouth in an effort not to inhale any ash. "That's wimpy!"
"That's smart," Troy snapped, "now go!"
The boy had no choice but to turn and open the door, searing his hand on the metal knob in the process. A burst of fresh air blew inside, and Harris slid on the ice, falling on his knees. Troy looked away, back at the senseless fog in which he hoped Gabriella and Arielle still were. He took a step forward, and watched the stairs' banister come ablaze in less than a few seconds. Fire could spread that fast; he would have to go faster.
Things were melted; furniture was charred charred; the shop's merchandise was burnt to a crisp. Troy could barely think straight as he felt around blindly for a path. "Gabriella," he whispered, wondering why it was her name he said rather than his own and only daughter's. "Ari…"
TYWY
Ash frosted her black hair, aging her forty years in the span of four minutes. Gabriella felt the gray dust interweave through her locks, as the wooden walls dwindled away to cinders. She sat in the storage room, as still as she could be, with Arielle in her lap. The girl's face was striped with dried tears, her eyes closed. At one point, she had fainted. Gabriella didn't know why—either because of the heat or because of the panic. It didn't really matter, though. They weren't getting out of there.
The storage room wasn't screaming with flames like the rest of the building. Actually, it was a lot more peaceful than anything Gabriella could imagine. Some of the beams high above them were smoldering, little wisps of smoke looped around them like curtain rings. "Keep us safe," she whispered.
When Gabriella awoke, she found the downstairs veiled with black smoke. It didn't make sense at first; she had no idea where it was coming from nor did she know where anyone was. The stairs were masked, too, making it difficult to see anything when she tried to walk up to the living room. Then, on the upper landing, she saw the dreadful fate: flames licking the kitchen cupboards, and Arielle standing in the middle. "Ari!" she screamed, sprinting through the smoke to get to her.
The girl was crying. When she saw Gabriella, Arielle hugged her and moaned something about Troy, and Harris. There was a choice: a son or a lover.
Downstairs, Gabriella roamed the shop for her child. Arielle had followed her, insisting her brother meant just as much to her as he did to his mother. "Harris!" they both yelled. The fire began to outline the room's walls, like a silhouette that warned of nothing good to come. "Harris!"
Time began to slow down; Gabriella realized it was that point where life was ending, and the flashbacks would ensue. She didn't really remember much of her childhood; there wasn't a lot to be nostalgic about. But she could remember her last couple of years in high school perfectly. The boyfriend, the popularity, the best friends, the singing. It wasn't until now that she realized how much it all meant to her, and how silly she was to leave it all behind in hope that it would always be there waiting for her, just in case she changed her mind.
"Harris," she said, her voice flat and stagnant. "Harris." Beside her, Arielle seemed to dissolve among the sheets of orange and yellow around them. The heat was choking Gabriella. She didn't want to stand up anymore.
"Mom!" Harris came through the thick smoke and hugged her tightly, one arm wrapped around his sister to include her in the embrace. "What's going on? What happened? How'd the fire start? Where's Dad?"
After that, Gabriella could not remember a lot more. She closed her eyes and Arielle took her hand, but Harris never followed. Now they sat in the storage room, and she wanted to cry, but every drop of salty water that rolled down her cheek soon evaporated, as if the fire told her you're not allowed to feel any sadness at all.
She heard Troy call her name for the tenth time. It was just her imagination teasing her, someone coming to save them from this hell. But all of the sudden, Troy appeared in the doorway, his face smudged with a black substance. "We have to get out of here," he said, kneeling beside Arielle. She was so little in his arms, like a doll ready to break. It took all of his strength not to collapse; the shop was dark and murky. There was no possible way to get out of there confidently. Gabriella strode beside him carefully, his guide in a foggy storm. The door materialized, and then it was simple. The home stretch was getting out the door where there would be safety waiting for them.
The glass of the windows was shattered across the ground. Troy tried to avoid every fragment, but one managed to slip by him and pierce his heel. He groaned, his knee giving way; Arielle began to fall toward the ground, gravity pulling at her just as it had Harris in infant form. Gabriella reached out to catch her, successfully steering clear of the rest of the shards.
"Dad! Mom!" Harris was screaming from outside. When she got close enough, Gabriella would see him pawing at the building, a firefighter's arms restraining him from moving any closer. "Where are they? Why aren't you going in to get them? I need them!"
Time slowed again. Gabriella wondered how long she had been waiting for this moment, how long she had wanted to hear someone want her as a mother, as a friend. When they reached the door, the fire crackled and hiss, and she could feel the force blast her shoulder blades. A ceiling shaft fell and they pushed outside. Cool, winter air graced their skin. A paramedic immediately came to take Arielle, and the adults rested on the curbside.
"There's glass in your foot," Gabriella said matter-of-factly, watching him wince as he scooted aside for her. "You need to get that checked out."
"I'm fine, it's just a little bit," he insisted, peering at the blood that trickled down his skin, staining the cuff of his pants. A clear piece of window stuck out, similarly discolored with red liquid that made her cringe. Troy sighed. "Maybe I should call over some help."
She smiled. "Yes, maybe you should."
The silence that crept between them was uncomfortable, but both were still suffering from the echoes of the flames, and the falling woodwork, and the sputtering embers. He was patient as he waited for medical assistance; she was graceful as she stood up and went to see her son. "Harris?" she asked. He was sitting next to Arielle, who was receiving oxygen from a tank through a tube. His arm lay around her shoulder.
Both children looked up; Arielle was crying again. She took the oxygen mask off her face and stood up—slowly, but she knew which two feet to put in front of her. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to make a nice breakfast. The stove flames, they were so high—"
It didn't matter to Gabriella. She shook her head and smiled. "Don't be sorry. I've been looking for a way to get out of Sampson and never had the heart to sell this old place. It's all gone, nothing to do but move forward," she said, as Harris rose. "Now you both should probably be going home now."
Troy came up behind her. "The paramedics have us in the clear. They think it's just shock—no major burns."
"And your foot?" Gabriella asked, turning to him for a second.
"Bandaged and fine," he replied, half-smiling. There wasn't a lot to say now. That awkward silence followed you places.
"Dad," Harris said. "If it's okay with you, I want to go with Mom. That is, if she's coming to New York."
It hadn't occurred to her where a fire would take her, but Gabriella thought it made sense. "No other home in the world for me but there. And maybe Albuquerque," she added, eyes sparkling. Even in the worst-case scenario, you always had memories to look back on.
The next evening, Gabriella and Harris are staying in the Danforth guest room.
The bunk bed was supposed to be for the twins that Taylor always wanted to have but never got around to conceiving. She said she was a motherly type, but Chad was not all that paternal. Still, there was a bedroom in their household with spaceship wallpaper and a PlaySkool coloring table. Harris had tried to sit on the little plastic chairs, but his knees went well above the marker-safe artistic surface.
She had taken the bottom bunk, at first declaring that it was immature to want the top bunk, and then later admitting to a fear of heights. Thirty minutes after he figured she had fallen asleep, Harris asked his mother if she was awake. The bunk bed shifted, and Gabriella answered, "Yes."
"What do you think Dad and Arielle are doing right now?" he asked.
"Probably watching 'The Flight of the Conchords' on HBO's vintage channel."
"What's 'The Flight of the Conchords'?" He made it sound like it was a documentary on street animals.
"A vintage HBO show," she answered practically, but was smiling at the glow in the dark stars Taylor had tacked to the ceiling. "Hey, Harris? Did you room look like this when you were little?" It was a terrible question for a mother to be asking her son, but curiosity got the best of her.
His voice glowed with happiness. "No, the wallpaper was cowboys and PlaySkool was actually Tonka. But close enough. I had the glow in the dark stars."
She lifted her arm to reach up for one of stars, picking it off the plaster so she could hold it in her palm, and have it close to her heart whenever, in the future, she need to be reminded that childhood was never all that far away.