Child's Fire: Part 3

Were you dreaming?

Yeah. It was a scary dream. Someone in a black robe was chasing me. I ran and ran. But he caught me. And I was so scared and I screamed. Then there was red everywhere.

And when you woke up?

Brita’s eyes are closed tight and her fists are clenched.

There was still red everywhere. All over my room, on my bed, on my window, at my door. But it didn’t hurt me. So I wasn’t scared and I started to dance. Like the nympie things I saw on a movie once. I danced and the fire danced. Then my mommy came in and she screamed. Her face looked like my jack-o-lantern. The scared one.

She called my dad who saw and got my brother. My mom couldn’t get through the fire. She tried and burned her arm. When she screamed I ran to her. But the fire told me she was okay. It was her fault.

Mommy kept yelling, “Brita, we gotta go. Brita, Brita, Brita.” She grabbed my arm real tight and dragged me away from the fire. But the fire didn’t want us to go. It followed us out my bedroom door, down the hall, into the kitchen—did a little dance on the countertop, I laughed—and out the house. Mommy ran and I tried to go back to the fire.

Your mother made it out, out of the house?

We all got out. Mommy, daddy, me, Riley, the dog.

Then, can you tell me how she died?

Tears are stream down Brita’s face. She squeezes her eyes tighter.

It was an accident. A bad, bad accident. I didn’t want to lose the fire. I told it to follow. It would be okay. If we could dance, everything would be okay. It skipped to me. My mom yanked me away and I screamed. “Let me go,” I told her.

Brita lets out a sob but hides it with a hiccup.

I remember that is what I said. “Let me go. I want to be with the fire.”

My mom had a strange look on her face and started to cry. She grabbed me real tight and hugged me; she squeezed and squeezed. I wriggled and wriggled. She wouldn’t let go. The fire got mad and attacked her. Came right over her head and grabbed her.

Brita hiccups again.

I tried to stop the fire. But it told me it couldn’t stop. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

Dr. Scott pauses. He notices Brita’s shoulders shaking. He hands her the handkerchief from his jacket pocket. She looks at it and scrunches her face, trying to stop the tears.

What is this?

It’s like a tissue.

Brita sticks out her lower lip.

I don’t want it.

Dr. Scott sets it on the table beside Brita’s bed-like chair.

You may lie down if it will make you feel better.

Brita looks at the cushion.

No. I just want to see my daddy.

Dr. Scott looks at the two men behind him again. Mr. Strong points to his watch.

Can you tell me what happened to your brother, Brita?