by Silvan Carson Goodman
Fire leaps from one chair to the next. Rapidly devouring the last memories of checkerboard upholstery. The flames hungrily lick at the ceiling, and I can't think about anything except what's down the hallway. I run, slamming through a door with my shoulder. I run down the hallways faster than when me and him were young, and I would let him win the races.
I kick his door open and I am blasted in the face with a billowing cloud of smoke. I can hear his wheezing, raspy breaths.
"Mike!" I shout. No response. I run to his bed; it's empty. He is on the ground; he was trying to crawl to his wheelchair.
I hoist him into my arms and lurch out of the room. Flashes of doors and fire and smoke go by my eyes. I don't register any of it until I am out on the lawn.
I can't hear or see the flashing chaos around me; I can only see his face. I place the soot-covered hunk of flesh gently in the grass.
He doesn't move. I touch his hair. He doesn't make a sound. I grab his shirt and I shake him. He doesn't breathe... or cough... or do anything. My tears fall on his damned useless legs that finally finished the job.
I kick his door open and I am blasted in the face with a billowing cloud of smoke. I can hear his wheezing, raspy breaths.
"Mike!" I shout. No response. I run to his bed; it's empty. He is on the ground; he was trying to crawl to his wheelchair.
I hoist him into my arms and lurch out of the room. Flashes of doors and fire and smoke go by my eyes. I don't register any of it until I am out on the lawn.
I can't hear or see the flashing chaos around me; I can only see his face. I place the soot-covered hunk of flesh gently in the grass.
He doesn't move. I touch his hair. He doesn't make a sound. I grab his shirt and I shake him. He doesn't breathe... or cough... or do anything. My tears fall on his damned useless legs that finally finished the job.
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