“I can see now that the house was probably not very well maintained, and it apparently wasn’t up to any kinds of safety codes. The irony is that because of that neglect the house had character. I guess that’s what I found romantic—that it was this classic-looking beach house off in the woods, near the water, and pretty much isolated. It wasn’t easy to get to. To get there, you had to drive down a skinny dirt road that wound over bumpy terrain and was hardly the width of one car. Our house was the last one on this poor excuse for a road, but that was good because it was really private and quiet. Anyway, we were there because of the choice that I made and because it was more affordable than the new house James wanted to rent. He didn’t hold that against me, though. Even when we got there and found out the hot water heater was crappy and there was no dishwasher or washing machine. The freezer barely worked, so we kept a cooler out on the deck, and every day we’d add another bag of ice to it.

“None of us cared about living like that, though. We all thought it was fun. But we should have stayed at the house James had picked out.

Next confession. “One afternoon—the afternoon—James and I went out together to get seafood because we wanted to make our parents dinner. You know, lobsters, steamers, mussels, the works. I don’t remember the first part of that day, for some reason. It’s like it didn’t happen, just like pieces of the other days around the fire are also missing. It bothers me that I don’t have the memories. They seem meaningful in some way; I feel it, even though that makes no sense. But … Anyway, I know that I went out with my brother. I remember that James wanted to drive. He didn’t have his license or even his permit, but he was such a charmer that I caved and let him drive. It’s fun to teach someone how to drive, but he was the worst driver ever. He kept grinding the gears and really fucked up my parents’ car, because after we’d bought out our favorite seafood shack, the car died on the dirt road before we got to the house. It made a totally shittastic noise and just stopped. I’m sure there was probably something else wrong with it already, but James’s driving really finished it off. I should have driven because then the car would not have been blocking the road. That might have helped things in the end.”

I rub my hands over my arms and shoulders, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the shower.

“So we left the car where it was and came home and had a spectacular dinner with my parents. The smell of everything boiling in the pots was so good. That salty, sweet ocean smell that fills the house. I love that. And we said good night normally. Just, you know, ‘Good night. Love you.’ Very casual and ordinary, done without any real thought.” I am trembling as my voice rises. “Because who the fucking hell says good night to her parents thinking she should say something meaningful because they might be burned to all shit later that night? I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”

I hit my fist against the wall and start to cry.

“I’m right here, Blythe.” Chris says. His voice is steady, gentle. “Do you want to stop?”

He pulls me back enough that I am stabilized again. “No.” I want to keep going. I can talk through tears. I know how to do that well.

“That night, it was cold, I remember, and my parents lit a fire in the woodstove in their room upstairs. The pipe was no good. The metal …” I am breathing hard, starting to gasp for air. “There was a crack in the metal pipe. I don’t know what it’s called. That black metal tube that is supposed to make woodstoves safe. But it was cracked, and the heat from the fire wasn’t contained.

“Know what most of the house was insulated with? What was inside the walls? Newspaper. Fucking newspaper. Who in God’s name does that?

“When I woke up, my room was filled with smoke. It was so dark, and I could hardly see, so I didn’t get what was happening at first. The smell. Oh, the smell. It filled my mouth … and swamped my lungs in seconds.” I turn my body so that my face is in the water, and I grab the shower handle. I hold my breath because I am remembering that I couldn’t breathe then, so I feel like I shouldn’t breathe now. I wait until I am light-headed before my instincts win and I take in air. “I turned on my cell so that I could see … and it … threw blue light into the smoke, and I could see through the haze to the door. Nothing looked right. The hall had even more smoke than my room, and I could feel the heat.”

It’s as if I am back there in the hall, with the crackling sounds, and the atrocious smell, and the belief that death is closing in.

“I couldn’t think logically, but I could feel terror. I could … smell it. I couldn’t have gone into the living room if I’d wanted to because … because the smoke was too thick that way. It was happening too fast, and I couldn’t make it slow down so that I could think. No smoke alarms were going off, so I couldn’t understand how there could be a fire. It seems stupid, but I wondered if it was something else. Like a bomb. I couldn’t make sense of it. Honestly, I don’t remember deciding what to do. I just moved. I didn’t even scream. I don’t think … I don’t think that I made any sound at all.” I’m choking now as the words tumble out. “I had my hand over my mouth. So dumb. That wasn’t going to help. But I left my room because I had to get to James. That was the only clear thought I had. It wasn’t even really a thought. It was a … a drive. I kicked my foot out and got his door open. He was still in bed, nearly unconscious. I couldn’t get him to move. I may have … I think that I yelled at him, but I’m not sure. James wouldn’t get up. He just wouldn’t get up. He was so heavy, and I wasn’t strong enough. But I tried. God, I tried with everything I had in me, and then somehow I had him half off the bed, and then I saw the fire.”

I can feel my pulse starting to pound and my anxiety escalate as the trauma sears through me again in a fresh, torturous way. Part of me understands that I am in a shower, in a full-blown panic. That I’m having some sort of quickly escalating anxiety episode. But I cannot stop it, and I don’t want to. I want to be telling this nightmare and getting it out of me. I barely recognize my own voice as I sputter and cough out the garbled words.

“The color is bouncing off the wall in the hall … and I know, I know … I know it is coming for us.”

Chris rips open the shower curtain and catches me with one arm as I drop. There is so much steam in the shower now that I can barely see as he turns the shower handle. “Too hot, baby,” he says with more control and calm than the situation warrants.

It takes me a minute to understand that we are now sitting on the floor of the shower. He is behind me. I know the feel of his chest against my back, and part of me is comforted, even while most of me is spinning out of control. He reaches up and lowers the water temperature more. I look down and see that my stomach, my thighs, my arms are scarlet. I have nearly scalded my whole body with hot water.

“Fuck, Blythe,” Chris murmurs. I hear fear in his voice, but he doesn’t let me go. He pulls my head back from the stream of water and pushes the hair from my eyes. I am sobbing now, and he lets me cry.

“I’m here, and I’ve got you.” Then a few minutes later, when my crying has not lessened, “I think you should stop. You’ve told me enough for now.”

Even though I am drowning in water and fire right now, I let out a loud protest and shake my head back and forth so hard that he agrees to let me finish.

“You have to promise me you’ll breathe.”

“I … can’t.” I can’t breathe, I can’t even see properly. The only thing that I can see is the blood that I know is coming. And the screaming.

“Yes, you can. And you will.” This is not a suggestion. It’s a deal breaker. “Breathe with me.”