“I’m sorry. Please don’t lock me away.

Not again.”

I wake to a loud roar. An all-too-familiar heat berates my face.

If I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend it doesn’t feel like my eyelids are about to melt off.

Yeah, right, stupid. As if keeping them closed will stop me from burning alive. With a groan, I force them open.

Yep. My entire room is on fire. Again.

But I’m not scared. Burning to a crisp at seventeen somehow seems…merciful. Most people would be terrified. Me? I’m only frustrated.

As the flames lap at the surrounding walls, my frustration turns into indignation.

I thought I was past this. That this was the start of my new life. That things would be different.

I grab my pillow and smash it into my face, expelling a muffled, blood-curdling scream.

“Okay!” I cry out from under the memory foam cushion. “You win! I get it. Ha-ha-ha. Can you stop already? Just leave me alone!”

The roaring of the flames sounds like laughter. Like the chorus of a thousand demons cackling all while flipping me off. This image in my head is somehow worse than my room being razed to the ground.

I let out another scream into my pillow for good measure, but I know it doesn’t matter. There’s no one to scream at anymore. I’ve already done enough screaming. I’ve screamed at myself. I’ve screamed at every one of my parents—foster, adopted, or biological. I’ve screamed at God Himself. None of it’s done me any good. Months pass without incident, but no matter what, it finds me.

If only I knew what “it” is. For the longest time I called it the Ghost, but even I knew that made me sound crazy. So instead, I now call it the Entity.

That makes me sound less insane, right? Right?

A bead of sweat slides down my neck and drips onto the coarse, scratchy sheets. I sigh as the flames eat up the gaudy curtains and ascend the walls of my sparsely decorated room. Lily told me to make it my own, but I knew something like this would happen. So why bother? The most personality in it comes from the stock floral curtains that I’m confident have been there since the early sixties.

I cross my arms and stare at the ceiling, justified in my defiance—never mind that I look more like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum.

No. I’m not moving this time. It’s their turn. Whatever wants to claim me can have me. My seventeen years of existence brought with it countless near misses, and I’m tired. Tired of caring. Tired of trying. Tired of not knowing the true source of all the pain. If I do nothing but sit here, maybe the Entity will make itself known. Either that, or the truth will reveal itself in the afterlife—if such a thing exists.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Or what if it’s worse? What if an afterlife exists, and I’m as clueless there as I am here?

I only hope my adopted parents—a jolt of panic threatens to sit me up on the spot. Where are they?

There’s no way they’re sleeping through this raging hellscape. I’d bet good money they’ve already run off, leaving me to be chargrilled alive like an underfed chicken. And when asked by the firefighters why they left their adopted kid inside, they’d be like, “Oh, we thought she’d be out here already.” Or maybe something closer to, “Well, she’s not really our child. She comes from a troubled background so…”

This is all their fault.

How naïve could they be? They mean well, but they should’ve known better than to go for the almost grown, high-risk foster kid with a well-documented penchant for arson.

A quaint house in a suburban Burbank neighborhood is an expensive price for their stupid mistake.

But they aren’t the only morons. I should’ve known better, too.

My arms still crossed, I tighten my lips and grit my teeth. Whatever has beef with me can just have me.

So determined am I to confront this faceless Entity that when the firefighters break through my window, I scream at them to get out—to leave me in the encircling blaze. My yells don’t faze them. They probably can’t hear me through the roar of the flames, but I still put up a fight. Even as they hoist my light one-hundred-and-five-pound frame, I struggle, punching one of them in the face before they overpower me.

No doubt they only see me as a mentally unstable girl. And who’s to say that’s a wrong assessment? Even I’m not convinced it’s wrong.

After struggling to free myself from the firefighter’s annoyingly powerful arms, I finally give in. Whether it’s the emotional trauma, the smoke, or plain exhaustion, I can’t tell. I let him shove me out onto a ladder sprouting from the top of a fire engine. As I descend, feeling the grooves of each rung dig into my feet with every step, I look up, seeing thick black smoke spill from my bedroom window.

I can sense the opportunity to confront the Entity slipping away. It’s not coming. Not with so many people around. Never with so many people around. Only when I’m alone.

Another fireman tries to help me off the ladder, and I smack his hand away. I feel helpless enough without having to be coddled.

When my bare feet settle onto the rocky asphalt, I spare a glance at the once-picturesque two-story home that’s served as my residence for the past six months. It’s the longest I’ve spent anywhere since I was ten. It’s also my last chance at a normal life. And now it’s gone.

“You couldn’t resist, could you?” I say, my eyes focused on the bedroom window. A lump forms in my throat as sadness and fear replace my frustration.

I hate this part—when my brain catches up and puts the entire thing into perspective. I try to stop it, but am overwhelmed as my breath quickens and the hyperventilation sets in.

I wrap one arm around myself and force deep, slow breaths, crouching down close to the pavement until I’m curled up into a ball. With my free hand, I flick a skin tag that rests on the left side of my neck. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Suddenly, the illusion I call the Entity doesn’t seem so real anymore. Suddenly, I know the truth. No matter what lies I tell myself, I know who’s to blame. This fire, like all the chaos in my life before it, is my doing.

I cover my ears, as though it’ll drown out the sound of licking flames and eliminate the deep shame setting in.

“Why am I like this?”

image [https://ajcerna.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/EPISODE1.png]