Fire, Clowns, and Polka Dots

I lit the match. No one should be home now. For a moment I just stood up and watched the flames as they spread, sending out tendrils of wispy orange flame, hesitantly at first, then with increasing ferocity. The thick, acrid black smoke was overwhelming already. I dropped to the floor, trying to get out. I hear a voice from the next room,

“Grace!” Brooke yelled, “Climb onto the roof, I’ll come up after you.” I scrambled to do what she said, waking from the initial shock of the fire and fumbled with the screen of my window. I looked down. This was no time to have another panic attack; the ground was not that far away. I took a deep breath and jumped with my eyes closed. The force of the landing jarred my whole body, leaving me shaken. The firefighters were already here. The air was getting harder to breathe, and I began coughing, my breath rasping in my throat.

A strong firefighter helps me to my feet, half carrying me to the waiting paramedics. He cursed. From behind me, there is a loud crash, a horrendous sound of splintering timbers and crackling flames. Pieces of what had been my house hurtled toward me as the furnace blew. Everything is going wrong. No one was supposed to be home. Struck by a piece of debris in the head, I am dazed. I looked for the rest of my family, to make sure they were safe, but my head was having trouble focusing, too absorbed with the blood that had started to run down my face. I tried to get up, but everything faded away, and then everything was as dark as the smoke I had left behind.

One month later, I sit in my Aunt Evelyn’s house, a small one story furnished with a recurring design of clowns and polka dots, with either design appearing at least once in each room. I never mentioned to her that not only do I have a fear of heights, I am afraid of clowns. I was the only survivor of the fire. I never meant to hurt anyone; I just couldn’t live in that house anymore. It wanted me dead, with every single one of its boards, nails, and shingles. I could sense that every time I walked inside, the malice that lurked in the dark. I knew it would collapse on me, to try to kill me one day. I did what I had to do to stop it.

“Honey,” says Aunt Evelyn, “There is someone here to see you. She’s a very special visitor.” Aunt Evelyn starts laughing.

“Coming Aunt Ev,” I say, “Who is it?”

“I’m just an old friend,” says a rough female voice. I know that voice somehow. Who is it, and why would they come here? I turn the corner and walk out to the porch. A girl, covered in ropy scars, is standing with my aunt.

“Brooke? I-I thought you were dead,” I stammer, “How, how are you here? I went to your funeral.”

“Who says I’m dead? You’re crazy, Grace,” Brooke says, “You tried to kill me.” I hear a cracking noise, and the house is caving in on me. I guess I couldn’t escape after all. I try to run, but Brooke tackles me, holding me down. A garishly painted clown sculpture falls off the polka dotted bookshelf and hits me on the head. I struggle to stay upright, but I collapse.

         I come back to myself gradually. There is a low, monotone beeping coming from next to me. I struggle to open my eyes. I can feel the tubes and IVs that are attached to my skin, keeping me alive.  I open my eyes, and find myself surrounded by large, spotted curtains as I lie in the hospital bed. A doctor with short brown hair is standing by my side.

         “What happened,” I ask, “Who are you?”

         “I am Dr. Lee, she says, “You have been in a coma for eight months. You were caught in an explosion after your house burned down. I’m sorry, but you and your sister were the only survivors.”

         “Brooke,” I ask, “Brooke is alive? When can I see her?”

         “I am sorry,” says Dr. Lee", “but she is still in a coma. The firefighters rescued some things from your house, however. They are at your grandparent’s house.”

Two weeks later, I am released from the drab hospital. Brooke is still in a coma. Deciding to see what was salvaged, I drive to my grandparent’s house in Wrentham. They hand me a box. Inside lies a familiar broken, garishly painted clown sculpture. For some reason, I find that hysterical, and I laugh and laugh, until I am so happy I feel like my heart will burst.

In a hospital in Boston, a girl in a coma begins to laugh, and goes into cardiac arrest. The doctors are unable to wake her.

All she can see now is fire, clowns, and polka dots.