Fire Everywhere

I stood frozen in the kitchen, chilled to the bone as he advanced, his face transforming into a merciless devil's mask. Within the confines of my bewildered body, my soul quivered. Desperate, I began murmuring mantras, clinging to the hope of a miracle to rescue me from the clutches of this monstrous being.
As he approached, a growing darkness enveloped my fading optimism. All I could discern was a silhouette moving closer, accompanied by an ominous void. With each step, I uttered prayers, yearning for a rescuing hand to emerge from the abyss.
I prayed fervently that he would halt, reconsider, turn away, and leave me be. Yet, with every advancing step, the threads of my prayers weakened, threatening to snap. He drew within a few feet, and as I shut my eyes tightly, his presence was still palpable.
The crisp sound of his heels echoed in the frigid silence. Even with closed eyes, I sensed his progression. The crackling of his footsteps reverberated, and in my mind's eye, I saw him moving forward, his face twisted with the anguish resembling the fires of hell. Flames flickered wildly at the tips of his wings, turning them red, much like the horns ablaze atop his head.
Fire, fire everywhere.
Sirens wailed in my ears, as though someone, aware of the impending fire, had summoned the brigade to douse it with buckets of water and cool the intensity. Gradually, a cold rush of air passed through my hair, accompanied by an unusual calmness that washed over me.
No more sirens, no more fire, just pure serenity. I felt the chill dissipating, warming my frozen figure, and I began to melt, slowly. His presence retreated as he left the kitchen boundaries and joined others in the living room. A deep sigh of relief escaped me before I turned my attention to the pot of milk on the stove.
Only then did I realize it wasn't me he had been approaching, but the stove. He had turned it off before leaving. I redirected my gaze to the living room; he sat on the couch with his back to me, seemingly engrossed in his phone.
"Maybe he's texting his girlfriend," I mused, dismissing the intrusive thoughts. I poured the stirred milk into the coffee mug, exited the kitchen, and made my way to my room. Placing the mug on the side table, I opened the drawer and retrieved my diary. As I flipped through its pages, something caught my eye—a poignant tale inked on the white-lined pages of my notebook.
I had been writing since eighth grade. Despite having all the conveniences around me, a persistent void lingered within. I felt an insatiable need to be heard.
I had always yearned for a comforting hand to stroke my back when the complexities of teenage life hit me hard. However, those around me were engrossed in their own elite activities—my mom in her kitty parties, dad in his business deals and dinners, and my brother Carl with his friends and girlfriends. None seemed to have the time or inclination to lend an ear to my worries or inquire about my day at school.
In my quest for understanding, I found solace in a companion that never complained, fought, or argued with me. This silent confidant listened attentively to my tales of teenage woes, providing a comforting presence that consoled my soul in various ways. It became apparent that my soul had found a mate.
As the voices from the lounge dimmed in the silence of my room, I could discern the words launched into the air—whispering, sobbing, stroking, consoling, and a subtle kiss. Dillon, sitting beside me in the backseat of the taxi, exhausted every means to halt my tears. No, I wasn't crying out of remorse; much damage had already unfolded, revealing a mirror reflecting another aspect of life.
I revisited the pages detailing my life events, reading through them again.
The cab came to a halt outside a quaint, old single-story house nestled in the countryside. The dwelling, with only one room, wasn't overly spacious and boasted minimal furniture—a bed, an abandoned study table with a chair tucked beneath it, a small square mirror affixed to the wall beside the bed, and a tray holding a comb and shaving materials. An open kitchen extended from the tiny living room, and there was a bathroom.
I stepped onto rose petals scattered at the doorstep, an elaborate decoration by Dillon to welcome me. I was enchanted by the simplicity of it all, like stepping into a fantasy—a fairy tale, reminiscent of the stories I used to read. Despite the absence of luxury, it felt like a real-life fairy tale.
"Do fairy tales really look like this?" I pondered. "Am I truly living in one? Pinch me," I asked Dillon upon entering the living room. Yellow fairy lights adorned the cemented walls, rose petals surrounded a burning scented candle on the table, and the entire house exuded the fragrance of jasmine. Dillon wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close to his chest.
"I love you," he declared, and tears welled up in my eyes as I reciprocated, locking my arms around him. "I love you too."
Like any other story, ours had a perfect, ideal, and happy beginning. The concept of a live-in relationship, rather than rushing into marriage, had been my idea.
Choosing to give more time to our relationship before making a lifelong commitment was, perhaps, the best decision I made during my teenage years. It allowed us to delve deeper into understanding each other.
Another crucial decision was to abstain from physical intimacy until our relationship became official. Surprisingly, Dillon agreed to this, even though I knew it must have been challenging for him to resist such temptations while sharing a bed with me each night. Despite the difficulties, we managed to refrain from indulging in intimate activities, opting for prolonged, desperate, and suffocating kisses instead.
Being young, with Dillon two years my senior, he was technically more mature. Though the initial days were challenging, we gradually found a rhythm that worked for us. As each day passed, our connection deepened, and secrets began to unfold.
The sudden knocking on the door interrupted my reflection. Quickly, I marked the page in my diary and slid it under my pillow before making my way to the door.