Creative Writing

Olivia DeRose, Reporter

I can still smell the smoke in the air. The remains of the building surround me. I never would have expected this to happen, but I still can’t remember how it happened. Within seconds our house went up in flames. Thankfully we all escaped. 

I walk through the ashes and spot an old family photo of my grandfather when he was a kid. He also grew up in this house, and so did his parents. The material value meant nothing to us, but the house had so many memories. The one thing that managed not to burn was a rug. But how does that make any sense? The rug was in the middle of the house so surely it must have burned, but no. It looks brand new.

As I take a step on the rug suddenly it collapses underneath me, sending me plummeting down into the earth. When I come to, I am in almost complete darkness. At least I thought I was. I look around and notice a hallway lit only by candles. Is this a dream? I walk down the corridor, and at the end of it is a fireplace. As I approach the fireplace, a face leaps out from the fire, sending me flying back. I hit the wall of the tunnel sending a shooting pain down my spine. I can’t move. I can’t breath. The face slowly burns down the hallway, but I still can’t make out who’s face it is.

Gasping for air, I try to crawl towards the face. Every movement sends more pain through my spine, and that’s when I see it. The face is my own. And then I remember. The fireplace started the fire. The fireplace… a face… the same face I see now caused the fire. But that face is me. I caused the fire.

I wake up screaming. I calm myself down knowing now this was a dream. As I stand up, I notice I am holding something. A lighter.