A Metaphor

The world is enveloped in flames and my eyesight is corroded by the smoke that is quickly surrounding me. I flail my arms helplessly, searching for an escape – for a way out. But I’m trapped in this room, sealed off from the world. What had once served as my sanctuary, had now transformed into a prison. The lock on my door was doing its job but, this time, was working against me. Instead of locking everyone else out, away from me, it was now keeping me securely in my fort.

I clenched my fists, silently cursing my parents and all the people in my life for forcing me to use my room as the only place I felt safe. I blamed them all. I shut my eyes tightly, gritted my teeth and let a few tears fall solemnly from my cheeks; they didn’t make it far before the heat of the flames evaporated them. Even now, I like to think that I cried because of the smoke and the flames but secretly – although I’ll never admit it – it was because of where I was in the world, that I’d never fully experienced the world for what it could be.

I opened my mouth to yell but the smoke swiftly invaded my lungs, choking me and infecting my voice. Even before I opened my mouth again, I knew that nothing would come out. Remembering something from some arbitrary Fire safety advert on TV, I got down onto my knees and lowered myself onto the floor. The smoke wasn’t as thick here but it was still like a fog around my eyes.

Something creaked behind me, a noticeably different sound to the crackling of the flames. But before I could turn, the bookcase was already upon me. Suddenly my head was filled with blame for my love of books, of knowledge and, again, of my parents for making me get a bookcase just a few weeks earlier. Tears streamed freely from my eyes and I screamed in pain as the metal clips on the wood burned my skin with a searing hot heat.

The computer in the corner of my room overheated and I could see sparks fly, even through the smoke. In the dry atmosphere, surrounded by paper and wood, that side of the room caught fire. This was all my parents fault. They introduced me to the internet, slowly feeding my obsession with it and caving in to giving me my own computer. This was their fault. All of this. The fire, the bookcase, the computer, this life and this helplessness. I wasn’t unprepared for this.

The door to my room burst open and a yellow figure stepped into my domain. I reached out a hand feebly but it didn’t attract any attention. I squirmed under the wood and felt another surge of pain run through me. I released a scream; from where, I didn’t know but I was so glad that I had. The masked eyes flitted to me and my predicament. I could hear a muffle shout and, a second later, another yellowy person came in with a jack-like mechanism. They levered it in, under the edge of the bookcase and began furiously pumping on the handle, raising the debris off of me.

The thinner of the two, wrapped a blanket around me and picked me up in their arms. Carrying me down the stairs, the masked individual hugged me closely to their chest. I peered up under the visor but blacked out shortly afterwards. Later, I learned it was a friend of mine from school. She’d done a summer course in fire-fighting and, when she’d turned 18, had enlisted part-time.

That night, riding to the hospital in the ambulance, I thought about the near-death experience I’d just encountered, about all the blame and about who I’d secretly loathe for the rest of my life. My parents seemed to be the logical choice but the longer I lay there, thinking, I realised that my view was utterly wrong…

They’d gotten me the bookcase so I didn’t have the “I’ve nowhere to put it when I’m done” excuse anymore. They’d gotten me the computer because I’d pushed, because they knew I felt like I belonged when I was on the computer. They had supported me at every turn and what did I do to repay them? I’d put the blame for everything on their shoulders. Hell, the fire was probably caused by one of the lights I asked them to keep on all night because I found the light underneath the door of my room reassuring.

I turned onto my side, irritating the doctor in the ambulance but I had to turn away to hide my shame as I sobbed quietly to myself.