The Fire

CC BY-NC-SA by ssalomons
CC BY-NC-SA by ssalomons

One of my earliest memories took place over 12 years ago. Wide-awake I lay staring at the ceiling, and for some unknown reason I could not fall asleep. Counting sheep did not help that night, and so all I did was listen to my mother’s calm and steady breath.

I do not know whether it was a matter of minutes or hours, and yet the moment I began to drift off, the whole bedroom suddenly became illuminated by a golden orange color.

Immediately I stood up and left my asylum of pillows and teddy bears. I ran to the window, led by curiosity. I was both amazed and frightened at the sight I saw. In the darkness there stood a burning home. The flames surrounded it from all sides, destroying everything on their path, and consuming the house slowly, until all that was left was a bare black skeleton. Swirls of dark grey smoke floated above the scene, adding to the gloominess.

What surprised me was how something so beautiful could be so deadly. Something that seemed solid and strong had been ruined once and for all. For the very first time in my life, I felt a sense of sorrow. I could do nothing to help the house, and no matter how much I wanted it would never ever come back. All I could do was stand there and watch, half conscious half unaware, that there was no fighting with nature, that fate will sooner or later lead us into the same place as this house.

In our world, beauty and cruelty sometimes seem to work simultaneously. Nature both gives and takes away, and yet I still find it odd that my first experience of death had been through a burned building from across the road.
After the firefighters had arrived, I returned to my bed feeling that all sleepiness had disappeared. Occupied with my own thoughts, I lay there waiting for the sunrise to come.

Weronika Demkow

Creative writing assigment