IF I SHOULD MOURN THE WORLD
by RaliNeoBlade
A/N: This happened tonight, Thursday, February 13th, 2003.
It was about eight-thirty at night, and sirens were going by the house, very close. But we live near a fire department, and there are usually sirens going off for something or another. I was sitting in my room, working on the twenty-first problem of my geometry homework when I smelled it. It was an acrid scent that was entirely unpleasant, and the first thing that I thought was-//Oh, my god. Someone's house is burning down.// Then I shook my head. I was jumping to conclusions, the sirens had finally gotten to me. But.
I sat stock-still for a few moments before getting up and walking down the hall and down the steps into the dining room. I weaved my way around my parents, who were watching the small television, and attempted to peer out the window.
"What's that smell?" I asked evenly. It had disappeared when I left my room, so I deduced that it was coming from somewhere closer to my end of the house.
"I don't know," my mom said, while my dad stood up. "Maybe it's the garage! Check the kitchen. Something's burning." I don't know why, but it seemed like she said it as if she knew what she was talking about, like she was in control of the situation, and for some reason, that made me angry.
I couldn't help it. //The *garage*,// I thought scathingly, in a moment of savagery. //The *kitchen!* Think you know everything. DAMN, what kind of instincts do you have?! It's *not* from here.// I didn't know why, but I was utterly convinced that someone's house nearby was on fire. And I was worried.
I walked to the living room and looked out the huge windows while my mom went to look at the garage and my dad followed me. My brother was doing who-knows-what. I couldn't see anything wrong from the window, but I could still hear the sirens.
Then my mom came back in, urging us to go into the backyard, because there was smoke in the air from a few streets away.
My dad moved to exit through the alleyway, to investigate such things as he always does, and for once, I went with him, filled with a horrible guilty excitement. Clad in my slippers, I trotted along with Dad.
I was right. It was only two blocks down, on a tiny little side- street called Eliot that nobody ever paid attention to. Maybe we should have. Before we even got to the scene, we saw the wall of smoke, and the flickering lights it projected. Maybe they were from the fire, maybe they were from the flashing lights of the fire trucks, we didn't know, because when we arrived, we couldn't see through the smoke.
The smell from earlier was now overpowering. It was sickly and stinging, burning the back of my throat even from our distance. I buried my face in my dad's jacket and tried to use it as a filter, but kept my eyes on the house.
One of the other people who had come to look over the spectacle reached out and stopped what looked like a nurse, and asked her what was going on. The answer wasn't definite, but she said, "There was a young blond woman in the front yard.I think it was her house. Poor thing."
My dad was pointing out things like how he used to build the tanks on the firemen's backs, because all the artificial things in a house gave off highly poisonous smoke when they burned. That's how most people die in fires, you know. Smoke inhalation. Dad was asking me if I could see something about the firemen, when I said I was going to run back to the house for my glasses, because I couldn't see a damned thing.
My brother and mom tried to bother me about details when I got back and went to get my glasses and change into shoes, but I brushed them off because they were being *stupid*-how could I tell them anything if I'd barely been out ten minutes and why would I want to, and get the HELL out of my way because it's not over yet and I'm in a hurry and if you're so goddamned curious get out there your fucking self. I didn't say that, of course, but it was what I was feeling. I suppose my mind had kind of overloaded.
I said I was leaving, when I'd finally got my shoes on, and my mom had the nerve to ask WHY.
"To go back," I said shortly, and slammed the door. I ran all the way back up, and found my dad and stood next to him. Then followed when he walked to get closer and nudged him to get closer still. The smell was still there-nasty and malignant, while smoke *poured* out of the house and dozens of firefighters went in and out. The house wasn't very big, and the fire was either gone or under control by then, but still nobody knew how it had started or if everyone was okay. I watched with wide-open eyes.
I thought it was okay, though, because a young blond haired woman-I pointed her out to my dad and said I supposed she was the owner of the house-was dashing about agitatedly and didn't seem to be hurt, and there wasn't an ambulance, at least I don't think so.
I asked my dad if everything was probably ruined in the house and he said yes, because of how much smoke had come out. It was a lot, and it was still coming out, but not violently or oppressively, like it had before. Water was gushing out from under a fire truck nearby and there was some kind of fan going-to air out the house, I thought, and told my dad so, and he agreed.
Some of the firemen came out of the house holding something after a while, and the young blond woman-presumably the owner of the house-went to it immediately and laid it on the ground while the firemen went back inside. She wrapped it up in a blue towel, and walked past the onlookers with it cradled in her arms.
I thought for a horrified moment that it might be a baby, but then realized that it had been too big, and it wasn't really the right shape. Then I thought it might be a pet of some sort, and my dad voiced the same thought. We speculated that it was a dog, and I felt sick thinking about it suffocating from the smoke. My imagination is too vivid, sometimes, and the thought was horrible.
We stayed for a while longer, just watching and waiting and hoping someone would eventually tell us how it had started, and how bad it was.
"Even if it wasn't that bad, it'll have gotten into the attic, and it'll take them a long time to clean that out. They'll have to cut a hole through the ceiling to it, and go from there. It's bad in any case," my dad said. The young woman wouldn't be sleeping in the house any time soon.
I supposed I should have thought of the furniture and the TV's and computers and expensive things that were undoubtedly ruined, but I wasn't. I was thinking //no one else was in there, good// and //nothing like this has ever happened near here before.// Maybe I was being too analytical, because it sounds kind of dispassionate when it's written here. But I wasn't emotionless, I was definitely feeling.
Most of all I thought about the photo albums, the pictures. What would the woman do without them? Without physical evidence of memories? My mom had all her baby pictures and things stolen when she was younger, and I always thought it was an unthinkable thing. What if the owner of this house walked in when it was all safe, all the fumes gone, bent down and picked up a half burnt picture of her family, ten years ago on some happy vacation? What if everything else was gone?
I didn't want to think about it anymore, so I told my dad I was going back, and I walked away. My dad joined me after a few seconds, for which I was glad, because I didn't want to walk home in the dark, with no one around because everyone was at the burnt house, even though home was only two or three blocks away.
We got home, and we were swamped with questions. Of course, we couldn't say much, because we didn't know what had really happened. But the part about the supposed pet was soaked up like a sponge, and I couldn't help but feel disgusted. Towards them or myself, I don't know, because I distinctly knew that I was excited when I first ran over. Adrenaline rush, even as I worried about the safety of those who lived there. Maybe it's just a human thing, when you're not closely involved in a tragedy. You can't *see*, you can't *understand*, unless you've been through that sort of thing before when you *were* directly affected. I wasn't. And so I didn't.
I was scared, certainly, that something like that could happen to me and my family some day. Any day. I love my family, I love my home, I love the memories that both hold. But at the moment I was numb.
I went back to my room almost immediately. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if I had changed at all. I could hear my mom and dad laughing about something in the dining room, and couldn't imagine how my dad could laugh, since he was with me there just a few minutes ago. I definitely didn't feel like laughing.
I looked down at the floor and my eyes lit on my geometry homework, and I supposed that I should finish it. Then I thought about how someone's life had been pretty much ruined that night, so close to me, and how many other people didn't have a home to lose in the first place, and how many lives were similarly ruined, or just ended, this same day, while I sat down to do my geometry homework.
It didn't seem.right, somehow. I felt like I was a terrible person, to be so lucky, and felt like I should mourn. But I knew that if I *felt* for everyone, if I spent a moment contemplating the pain that every person has ever felt, I'd spend every second of my life mourning. And rejoicing. And laughing. And crying.
So I sat down to finish my geometry homework, and when I was done, I turned on my computer, and started to write.
Rali: Yeah. R&R. Thanks.
by RaliNeoBlade
A/N: This happened tonight, Thursday, February 13th, 2003.
It was about eight-thirty at night, and sirens were going by the house, very close. But we live near a fire department, and there are usually sirens going off for something or another. I was sitting in my room, working on the twenty-first problem of my geometry homework when I smelled it. It was an acrid scent that was entirely unpleasant, and the first thing that I thought was-//Oh, my god. Someone's house is burning down.// Then I shook my head. I was jumping to conclusions, the sirens had finally gotten to me. But.
I sat stock-still for a few moments before getting up and walking down the hall and down the steps into the dining room. I weaved my way around my parents, who were watching the small television, and attempted to peer out the window.
"What's that smell?" I asked evenly. It had disappeared when I left my room, so I deduced that it was coming from somewhere closer to my end of the house.
"I don't know," my mom said, while my dad stood up. "Maybe it's the garage! Check the kitchen. Something's burning." I don't know why, but it seemed like she said it as if she knew what she was talking about, like she was in control of the situation, and for some reason, that made me angry.
I couldn't help it. //The *garage*,// I thought scathingly, in a moment of savagery. //The *kitchen!* Think you know everything. DAMN, what kind of instincts do you have?! It's *not* from here.// I didn't know why, but I was utterly convinced that someone's house nearby was on fire. And I was worried.
I walked to the living room and looked out the huge windows while my mom went to look at the garage and my dad followed me. My brother was doing who-knows-what. I couldn't see anything wrong from the window, but I could still hear the sirens.
Then my mom came back in, urging us to go into the backyard, because there was smoke in the air from a few streets away.
My dad moved to exit through the alleyway, to investigate such things as he always does, and for once, I went with him, filled with a horrible guilty excitement. Clad in my slippers, I trotted along with Dad.
I was right. It was only two blocks down, on a tiny little side- street called Eliot that nobody ever paid attention to. Maybe we should have. Before we even got to the scene, we saw the wall of smoke, and the flickering lights it projected. Maybe they were from the fire, maybe they were from the flashing lights of the fire trucks, we didn't know, because when we arrived, we couldn't see through the smoke.
The smell from earlier was now overpowering. It was sickly and stinging, burning the back of my throat even from our distance. I buried my face in my dad's jacket and tried to use it as a filter, but kept my eyes on the house.
One of the other people who had come to look over the spectacle reached out and stopped what looked like a nurse, and asked her what was going on. The answer wasn't definite, but she said, "There was a young blond woman in the front yard.I think it was her house. Poor thing."
My dad was pointing out things like how he used to build the tanks on the firemen's backs, because all the artificial things in a house gave off highly poisonous smoke when they burned. That's how most people die in fires, you know. Smoke inhalation. Dad was asking me if I could see something about the firemen, when I said I was going to run back to the house for my glasses, because I couldn't see a damned thing.
My brother and mom tried to bother me about details when I got back and went to get my glasses and change into shoes, but I brushed them off because they were being *stupid*-how could I tell them anything if I'd barely been out ten minutes and why would I want to, and get the HELL out of my way because it's not over yet and I'm in a hurry and if you're so goddamned curious get out there your fucking self. I didn't say that, of course, but it was what I was feeling. I suppose my mind had kind of overloaded.
I said I was leaving, when I'd finally got my shoes on, and my mom had the nerve to ask WHY.
"To go back," I said shortly, and slammed the door. I ran all the way back up, and found my dad and stood next to him. Then followed when he walked to get closer and nudged him to get closer still. The smell was still there-nasty and malignant, while smoke *poured* out of the house and dozens of firefighters went in and out. The house wasn't very big, and the fire was either gone or under control by then, but still nobody knew how it had started or if everyone was okay. I watched with wide-open eyes.
I thought it was okay, though, because a young blond haired woman-I pointed her out to my dad and said I supposed she was the owner of the house-was dashing about agitatedly and didn't seem to be hurt, and there wasn't an ambulance, at least I don't think so.
I asked my dad if everything was probably ruined in the house and he said yes, because of how much smoke had come out. It was a lot, and it was still coming out, but not violently or oppressively, like it had before. Water was gushing out from under a fire truck nearby and there was some kind of fan going-to air out the house, I thought, and told my dad so, and he agreed.
Some of the firemen came out of the house holding something after a while, and the young blond woman-presumably the owner of the house-went to it immediately and laid it on the ground while the firemen went back inside. She wrapped it up in a blue towel, and walked past the onlookers with it cradled in her arms.
I thought for a horrified moment that it might be a baby, but then realized that it had been too big, and it wasn't really the right shape. Then I thought it might be a pet of some sort, and my dad voiced the same thought. We speculated that it was a dog, and I felt sick thinking about it suffocating from the smoke. My imagination is too vivid, sometimes, and the thought was horrible.
We stayed for a while longer, just watching and waiting and hoping someone would eventually tell us how it had started, and how bad it was.
"Even if it wasn't that bad, it'll have gotten into the attic, and it'll take them a long time to clean that out. They'll have to cut a hole through the ceiling to it, and go from there. It's bad in any case," my dad said. The young woman wouldn't be sleeping in the house any time soon.
I supposed I should have thought of the furniture and the TV's and computers and expensive things that were undoubtedly ruined, but I wasn't. I was thinking //no one else was in there, good// and //nothing like this has ever happened near here before.// Maybe I was being too analytical, because it sounds kind of dispassionate when it's written here. But I wasn't emotionless, I was definitely feeling.
Most of all I thought about the photo albums, the pictures. What would the woman do without them? Without physical evidence of memories? My mom had all her baby pictures and things stolen when she was younger, and I always thought it was an unthinkable thing. What if the owner of this house walked in when it was all safe, all the fumes gone, bent down and picked up a half burnt picture of her family, ten years ago on some happy vacation? What if everything else was gone?
I didn't want to think about it anymore, so I told my dad I was going back, and I walked away. My dad joined me after a few seconds, for which I was glad, because I didn't want to walk home in the dark, with no one around because everyone was at the burnt house, even though home was only two or three blocks away.
We got home, and we were swamped with questions. Of course, we couldn't say much, because we didn't know what had really happened. But the part about the supposed pet was soaked up like a sponge, and I couldn't help but feel disgusted. Towards them or myself, I don't know, because I distinctly knew that I was excited when I first ran over. Adrenaline rush, even as I worried about the safety of those who lived there. Maybe it's just a human thing, when you're not closely involved in a tragedy. You can't *see*, you can't *understand*, unless you've been through that sort of thing before when you *were* directly affected. I wasn't. And so I didn't.
I was scared, certainly, that something like that could happen to me and my family some day. Any day. I love my family, I love my home, I love the memories that both hold. But at the moment I was numb.
I went back to my room almost immediately. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if I had changed at all. I could hear my mom and dad laughing about something in the dining room, and couldn't imagine how my dad could laugh, since he was with me there just a few minutes ago. I definitely didn't feel like laughing.
I looked down at the floor and my eyes lit on my geometry homework, and I supposed that I should finish it. Then I thought about how someone's life had been pretty much ruined that night, so close to me, and how many other people didn't have a home to lose in the first place, and how many lives were similarly ruined, or just ended, this same day, while I sat down to do my geometry homework.
It didn't seem.right, somehow. I felt like I was a terrible person, to be so lucky, and felt like I should mourn. But I knew that if I *felt* for everyone, if I spent a moment contemplating the pain that every person has ever felt, I'd spend every second of my life mourning. And rejoicing. And laughing. And crying.
So I sat down to finish my geometry homework, and when I was done, I turned on my computer, and started to write.
Rali: Yeah. R&R. Thanks.