The flames dark brilliance melted the night’s obscurity into a long and narrow shadow behind me.

A mournful cry of a siren in the distance wailed closer, crossing the thin threshold from reality to nightmare.

I sat on the edge of the curb across from the house, gazing at the epic battle before my eyes. Blazing warriors danced endlessly before the flickering shadows, undaunted before the throng of frothing stallions charging into them. Neither side seemed to be winning. The fight had gone on for eras, consuming the ground the horses and warriors trampled on. Brick and wood burned away as the dawn of the next day roared closer.

But my perception of time must surely be distorted—it could not possibly have been nearly an hour since I’d stumbled out of the door after the men in ash-stained yellow…fingers trembling, mind numb, the bellow of the fire overwhelming, the choking taste of gritty harsh smoke and the burn of sweat. Sensation overload. Too much for the mind.

By now the entire neighborhood was outside and watching. Transfixed and deathly-quiet. For moments upon end the battle dominates the world. Eyes unfocused but still riveted forward.

I feel a prickle of wind as the angel of death flies murderously past me. But no, it’s just a man, in black uniform with a silver badge pinned to his shirt, sharply reflecting my fear. He sits. Says nothing, eyes warily glancing at me.

He must know he need not say a thing, for I already know, am now sure because of the pained, cautious way he sat down, of how he then hesitated to speak, staring hopelessly at the lost survivor.

I had gotten away, had been saved.

Survived.

But they had not.