Back against the wall, gasping for air, mere feet from the remnants of the chandelier that almost crushed me. A massive bruise blooms in shades of purple and black, spreading down my arm from where it slammed into the couch.

A simple press of the remote brings the TV to life with a quick flick through the channels to the news channel. The anchor continues to yap about the miners trapped underground, a topic that has dominated the broadcast all week. Thankfully, the TV remains unaffected, securely mounted to studs on the wall.

The reporter interviews a passerby. “Just a week ago, these damn earthquakes were unheard of, havin’ never happened in the city’s entire history. It’s as if real life has been canceled for today—a day that should’ve been like any other. The scary thing is I was out of town. I wouldn’t know this happened if my brother’s wife hadn’t called me.”

While focusing on the news, an acrid scent assaults my nose, making it shrivel from the spices whipped into the air by a detached ceiling fan. This fan, dangling precariously and still spinning, is held only by a couple of power cables above the kitchen-dining table. Beneath it, spice bottles have spilled from the cabinets, breaking and exploding upon impact with the floor.

The most unpleasant note is the smell of burnt plastic mixed with the spices, creating a distinct and sharp scent. “Where is that coming from?”

A loud bang comes from the basement. It’s more of a shock than a bang really as the power flickers off and on with plumes of thin white smoke and blue flashes from the basement. The power shuts off; the screen following. Seconds later, the emergency lights kick on, leaving an eerie pale orange glow around the house. Incidentally, the dim light makes the smoke easier to see.

The scent of burnt plastic coming from the basement quickly overpowers the smell of spices and triggers a memory of a conversation shared with Dad while standing outside near the side of the house. He remarked, “The danger of knowing too much is the tendency to become paranoid. That’s why I insisted on installing this kill switch. It’s designed to cut the power supply to the electrical box in the basement, serving as a safety tool in the event of an electrical fire. Just pull this switch, it will physically disconnect and isolate the generator and mains power, severing the interconnect into the house.”

On that day, I remember raising my eyebrows, convinced my dad was indulging his paranoia. “What sets apart a regular fire from an electrical one, anyway?” I was skeptical.

Dad, with his expertise as a high voltage electrical engineer, seemed excited to explain. “While the fire extinguisher near the stove is effective against typical household fires, especially those fueled by grease, it’s ineffective against electrical fires. The idea is all fires need fuel. Fire extinguishers work by smothering the fire, limiting the amount of oxygen until the fire puts itself out. But an electrical fire doesn’t need oxygen to burn. This switch removes the fuel source from the electrical fire, allowing the sprinklers to do their magic. Without the messy details, the telltale sign is an unmistakable scent of burnt rubber or plastic.”

I thought “He can’t stop talking to save his life.” As he was going overboard, and told him the same. “Doesn’t our electrical box already shut itself off in case of a fault, and isn’t the generator busted, anyway?”

That question turned out to be a mistake, as it started an impromptu lecture. “This is in case that fails, and it will also make servicing easier, so I can fix that generator when I get around to it. Two birds, one stone. I mean—”

The cracks and snaps from downstairs interrupt the memory. “I owe dad an apology, don’t I?”

An unfamiliar emotion surges forth as I race to the door. My breath is heavy, as if trapped by an unseen force. The door is immovable, sealed by the thickening fall of snow outside that frosts the windows. “It’s stuck.”

For a moment, I lean against the cold, unyielding wood and allow myself to close my eyes. The rush of my heartbeat fills my ears. The cold from the door seeps through my clothes, a chill settling into my bones, yet strangely grounding me. I take a deep breath, the air crisp and biting as it enters my lungs, with my attempts to steady my thoughts. It’s a method my counselor taught me.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Outside, the world seems muffled by the snow, a blanket that both insulates and isolates. Just hours before, everything had been normal; now, it feels as if I had stepped into another reality, with thick black smoke now coughing up from the basement, quickly making it hard to see.

My only thought now is to get out of the house. But the door doesn’t budge. I try again, and again, and again. The bruise along my arm grows larger each time. The door stutters and opens partially before another good crash forces the door open with my momentum, tossing me into the snow blanket outside.

The falling snow blocks the sunlight, but it’s still far too bright with the emergency lights. There’s no trace of Alice or Caleb. The day feels like it’s sticking to me like a forgotten word on the tip of my tongue. Each of my thoughts mashes into the next, and while they cancel each other out, the collisions cause new and bigger thoughts to form.

When I called nine-one-one, I got a robotic message that said, “This line is busy,” before the call abruptly ended. To get help, I try to call my parents but get the same message, “This line is busy,” before it drops too.

My body becomes filled with numbness. That’s when I thought about “The switch!” moving to the right side of the house by the driveway. The red service panel is right next to the water meter.

With the panel open, I recall that during the install I pulled the switch to test it. It’s very heavy but makes a loud ca-chunk as the springs assist the lever halfway down, pulling apart the interconnection.

The bottom part of the panel has a series of switches and LCDs, with the temperature readout for each room in the house. The primary switch forcibly activates chemical fire suppression in the basement of Mom’s lab, and the sprinklers in the rest of the house.

The first, second, and third-floor secondaries will independently activate the suppression system on a single floor. Then there are individual switches for each room.

The lever causes the interconnect to be pulled apart. Then, with the shield on the basement switch up (the third secondary switch), the chemical suppression system in the basement kills the fire.

Around the time Mom got a promotion at the coal plant, she brought her experiments home. Dad’s deal with Mom is the basement needs to be safer than the lab at the plant. But he doesn’t think she’ll actually make a new lab. A misstep on his part because she has his stubbornness.

It also means the basement is off-limits for me. Why she needs a laboratory in the basement is a mystery to me. She should just be a chemist at the coal plant. But the construction of it means finally settling down, so I’m not all that interested in going down there anyway, just happy that we’re not moving all the time anymore.

The central air system has a sensor in each room, allowing for independent management of the temperature throughout the house. Dad’s plan is to connect to these sensors to automate the fire suppression system, but for now, “I haven’t got around to it.” is his response.

“It’s too late now.” I thought, with the temperature on the LCD for the basement going down.

Seriously, I am well aware of the complexity and absurdity of the system. But everyone treats me as a lunatic for having imaginary friends, or going off into my own worlds in my head.

I don’t want to stand out even more by questioning them about some unverified conspiracy theory. It’s not possible for anything else to be going on, just a paranoid dad, and a chemist mom, who both work at the local coal plant in a nondescript suburban city, worried about my safety.

Scratching my head, defeated, I guess... I’m not doing a good job ignoring him, am I? His lectures aren’t so bad. My heart is finally slowing down, returning to normal.

As my gaze drifts into the sky, toward the coal plant. A wave of—fear rushes me. The blinding light acts as a lighthouse in the middle of this blizzard. Like the mouth of a malevolent creature consuming the sky, the thick black smoke rises into the atmosphere. The sky is red. It’s clear as day even through the dense fall of snow.

I’ve seen many explosions on YouTube during my short binges. I know how they look. Reflexively, I count the slowest 23 seconds of my life. The shockwave shakes the house completely differently than the earthquake. The windows shatter, exploding around me. It’s a sensation that resonates throughout my entire body.

The scorching heat fades quickly with the gusts from the wind. I am not affected by the coldness due to my high tolerance, but I am sensitive to heat. It still carries the sensation of a campfire at this distance. I take out my phone once more to call Mom. “This line is busy...” then Dad, “This line is busy…” The hang up sound plays with a dead dial tone, but the tone is too soft.

“This has to be a dream.”