Tanner
I barely slept last night or the night before. Bailey and I spent our weekend holed up in my house navigating a sudden rift that has formed in our relationship.
She barely looked in my direction all weekend. Even now, I can barely put into words what happened. One moment, we’d been having sex, and the next moment things got… hazy. Like I was standing outside of my body, watching, unable to stop the series of events unfolding in front of me as Bailey’s eyes rolled back in her head and she was just… out. Out, for several seconds, them came to, screaming and pointing a knife at me.
I can’t put my guilt into words, so I’m not going to even try. What’s worse is the fact she spent the last two days trying to apologize to me.
It’s safe to say my head isn’t screwed on right today.
I step down off the foundation and onto the wide driveway at the old Gregory property and run my fingers through my hair before putting my cap back on.
Jose walks into view with his toolbox hoisted over one shoulder as the rest of the crew unload their tools from their trucks, ready to begin another week of work.
“I just got the inspection report, and we’re green,” I tell Jose as he steps up to my side. “I got the electricians and plumbers coming later this afternoon. You and the guys will be working around them until next Wednesday, and then we’re starting sheetrock.”
I spend the next twenty minutes explaining how today needs to go. This place needs to be spotless and prepared for the journeymen coming in to get this place hooked up to power and water.
This is the last phase of the heavy stuff, and in the next few weeks, we’ll be moving on to finish work. Julia, the future lady of the house, has been blowing my phone all weekend with her cabinetry order for the kitchen and six bathrooms. All of the flooring, tile, and plaster has been ordered from Italy, of course, and is on its way.
A few weeks from now, I can cash in my final check and kiss this place goodbye.
Jose and the crew enter the skeleton-like depths of the house just as my phone rings, and I catch a glimpse of the caller ID before answering it right after the first ring.
It’s the firehouse. Tyler, a volunteer firefighter, tells me there’s a house fire on the outskirts of town in a subdivision full of brand new homes. It’s electrical, by the sound of it.
It takes me a little under ten minutes to get to the neighborhood. My mind goes blank in that way only a situation like this can cause as I watch thick, black smoke funnel toward the cloudless sky.
The street is crawling with onlookers as I skid to a stop three houses down and sprint to the trucks, pulling on the gear I keep in my backseat in case of emergencies like this one.
“We got two units coming in from New Orleans, and an ambulance is on its way,” Tyler shouts over the spray of water. The two-story new-build is entirely engulfed in flames, a total loss at this point, but the house to its left is burning now too. Its roof cracks, sending embers dancing down to the pristine, freshly landscaped front yard.
“How many people inside?” I ask before pulling on my helmet.
“None in that house, Johnnie got the neighbors on either side cleared out–”
“MY DAUGHTER!” A shrill scream cuts through the air, and I whirl as a young woman, no older than thirty, rushes toward the house with the roof fire.
One of my guys catches her around the waist before she even reaches the sidewalk. She screams again, and there’s so much agony in her voice as she cries, “PLEASE! SHE WENT BACK INSIDE!”
Tyler and I look at each other before rushing to the distraight woman and find out she cleared out of her house with her three kids in tow, but her eight-year-old daughter slipped away. Her son, currently clutching her leg, mumbles something about a toy his sister didn’t want to leave behind.
I’m putting on a mask before my brain catches up to the actions of my body. I pause, shouting to any firemen nearby, “Clear out the street, now!” I turn to the woman, shouting, “What is your daughter’s name?”
“Rosie!”
The sirens from the two volunteer fire engines start a low, warning wail. The first house–where the fire originated–is about to collapse.
It’s a hot, dry, windy day. The roof fire is spreading fast, and smoke is pouring from the windows.
There’s a kid inside. The mother is beside herself as she sinks to her knees, begging for help.
I’ve been on the volunteer force for over a decade. Hahnville has never been big enough to justify having a paid fire department like New Orleans, and it takes too long for anyone from that city to get here in times like these.
I’ve gone into my fair share of fires to drag people out.
It’s just another day at the office, as far as I’m concerned.
I turn and rush toward the house, kicking open the front door, and the air around me dissolves as acrid smoke fills the doorway.
The smoke rolls over me as I step inside. The house is already hot, and there’s barely any breathing room. The sound of my own breath fills my ears. My gear is heavy, and the mask I’m wearing cuts into my skin as I pick my way through the lower level of the house, calling out Rosie’s name.
Through the radio, I’m being told to hurry, to clear out. A tremor runs through the house as the neighboring home finally collapses.
It’s far too fucking hot in here. Smoke rolls down the stairs as I head to the second level, kicking open doors, looking under beds.
What’s the point? It’s just a little girl. What use is she? She’ll just grow up to be as evil as the rest…
I shake my head. Why would I think such a thing? It’s like the thoughts invaded my mind, momentarily rendering me useless.
Just let her die. You won’t find her in time, anyway. She’s probably already dead. Stupid little girl. She ran into the fire trying to find a toy. She wanted to die. Only someone who wants to die would run back into a burning building. Let her die. Let her die…
I grunt with effort as I kick down the door in the upper floor hallway. What’s wrong with me?
“Stop,” I tell myself, but now I’m hesitating. A smoke-washed bathroom looms through the doorway I just kicked in.
It’s the only room in the house I haven’t cleared.
A voice in my radio tells me to fucking hurry, that I’m running out of time.
The ceiling is cracking with heat, the paint peeling as the walls start to smolder and the fire creeps from the attic to the second floor of the house.
This place is a tinderbox, isn’t it? I always said the new-build homes in this neighborhood weren’t worth their asking price. Now look, some worthless kid is going to die. They’ll put new homes on this lot. Maybe they’ll build the houses better next time. Maybe her death was a good thing. Just let her die. Walk out, go home, take it out on Bailey. Wrap your hands around her slender neck and watch the life drain from her eyes…
“ROSIE!” I shout into the bathroom. The house creaks and strains around me, dust drifting through the smoke as the fire eats into the second floor.
I step into the bathroom and pull back the curtain, finding the girl curled in the fetal position in the tub.
Leave her. Leave her. Leave her.
I feel like I’m fighting my own mind as I scoop her up and rush out of the bathroom. The second floor hallway is in flames, and I can’t stop. The stairs start to crumble as I reach the last step and dart across the foyer, reaching the porch just as the fire licks down the stairs behind me.
I might be blacking out because I barely remember ending up in the front yard and the girl being lifted from my arms. I barely remember being dragged onto the road and my mask being yanked off my face.
I just remember the voice in my head telling me to let the girl die.
***
“I love you. Goodnight. Try to sleep, okay?” Bailey’s voice is a soft lullaby in my ear. I take a breath, my eyes fixed on the TV across the room.
“I’ll try.”
“They’re saying you’re a hero. They’re right,” she says softly, her voice echoing through the phone at my ear.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell her, even though it’s not true. She’s at the Wilson’s tonight, and I have to be at the job site at 6:00 A.M., but my mind isn’t on Bailey or the fact we’re going days without seeing each other right now.
In fact, that distance might be a good thing.
I watch images flee the firey building in a flash across the TV screen. A reporter goes over the story–how the local volunteer fire department responded to a fire that ended up engulfing two homes, and seriously charing another. How the fire chief–me–rushed inside one of the burning homes to save the life of an eight-year-old girl, who is still in critical condition at a hospital in New Orleans.
They are, in fact, calling me a hero.
I suck down my second glass of whiskey as memories of the fire rush through my mind and blur my senses.
How could I have even thought about letting that kid die?
What’s wrong with me?
I could give you anything you wanted. Your darkest desires. Your wildest dreams.
I stand on unsteady feet and walk into the kitchen to pour myself another drink.
Tell me what you want, and it’s yours. Money, fame. But not her. She’s mine.
I rub my ears and slam my hands on the counter. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask myself through gritted teeth.
I feel like there’s something crawling in my skull, trying to sink its talons into my flesh.
I hate being ignored. This is for your own good. For her own good. Let me in, Tanner. Let me in and let’s play my favorite game.
I try to take a breath, but my chest is frozen. I feel light headed and woozy, and not from the alcohol blooming in my veins, no.
“Who are you?” I whisper to the empty room. “What do you want?”