Why hello there reader! You're about to read a short story about the Hindenburg (yes, the day of the disaster) and a very odd passenger on board….who just so happens to be only eleven….but really smart anyways…alright, well enjoy this short story! This has been made possible by Subway, eat fresh! (Just kidding, nobody gives a shit about my stories except all those people who read them…DAMN YOU SUBWAY!)
DISCLAI-wait a minute, I do own all this.
"Adelaide, honey, remember to pack your hairbrush after you're done!" my mother's voice drifts softly into the bathroom.
"Yes mother!" I respond in the sweetest, most innocent voice I can muster. Grinning, I run the shiny black brush through my wavy light blond hair. You see, if I don't look and act like an innocent eleven-year-old girl, my parents will find out nothing has changed. They'll realize that I'm just an actress and I'm still very much a pyromaniac. I giggle slightly at the fact that everyone around me is clueless: everyone on the Hindenburg, all of my neighbors. Yes, everyone except the face of the porcelain-skinned girl who's staring at me through the mirror. As I clip my hair back with three black hairpins, I stare hard into my own icy blue eyes. Those eyes have seen so much more than eleven-year-old girl should have seen. Oh yes, they've experienced the countless doctors I've had to see that all say the same thing: "It'll get better," or "I'm just here to help you, not change you." They're all full of shit.
Let's confess, letting my parents see me playing with my beloved matchbox was the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life. But I just couldn't resist; the fire was so pretty! And it looked so good devouring my pinky! Well, what goes up must come down, and my parents went to the extremes of sending me to an asylum, and I never want to go through shock therapy again. It dulls my senses! So I'll just be the innocent James daughter that laughs and plays and always wears those adorable dresses every day. Every. Single. Day. I play with the large white buttons on the powdery blue knit one I'm wearing right now. On my feet are shiny black shoes that have a bit of heel to them. My mother says that we have an engagement after this, so we all have to wear something nice. Yes, that includes my imbecile younger brother Desmond as well, the six-year-old bundle of rudeness, stupidity, and just plain mediocrity.
Finally I slip out of the tiny cramped bathroom and into our bunker cabin. I watch Desmond as he etches different drawings and characters onto the light brown wooden post of his bed with a butter knife he swiped from the table this morning. Mother is smoothening the deep violet, lint-covered blankets and folds her only son's clothing. Father is outside on a business call, his lips tightly stretched across his face in a straight line and his dark brown hair with just a few grey hairs in it unkempt. It must be one of those you'll-lose-that-boatload-of-money-we-give-you-if-you-don't-do-this calls.
Idiots. Every one of them. It's really quite funny how oblivious they all are. They always go about life as if nothing is important but our supposedly perfect family and shun the same people our stuck up high society neighbors shun. God, I could be sick. Nevertheless, I skip gaily up to my mother and tug on her dark green gown that spills from her waist in thin sheets of chiffon down to the floor, where it forms a puddle on the suitcase-strewn sky blue rug.
"Yes honey? Oh you look so darling!" my mother smiles with her thin lips and sunken green eyes.
"Thank you mother!" I give her a wide smile. God, make it stop! "Will we be in New Jersey again soon?"
"Of course. You know, Adelaide, I've been so proud of you this trip! Shock therapy must've helped a great deal!" she claps her hands together. Oh, she wishes. She wants to have that picture perfect family so bad. She is in love with being the center of attention. It's as if that's her sole purpose in life: fitting in, being idolized, and being rich.
Like the good little girl I am, open up my grey suitcase lined with brown leather and slip my brush inside. I tug on my long sleeves, noticing it getting warmer. My family seems affected by it as well, as my brother has started panting (oh he thinks he's so cute) and my mother has dabbed at her perfectly made up face with a handkerchief, careful not to smudge her hideous looking light green eye shadow. Seriously, I'm eleven and I know it doesn't look good with her not-quite-tan complexion. Pathetic.
Just as I'm starting to think that it's just my imagination, that maybe they turned up the heat I hear a bang. It's quick but incredibly loud. The rest of my family yelps as I jump the slightest bit. Now it's really starting to get hot, and all of a sudden the whole Hindenburg blimp breaks out into a chorus of cantankerous screaming. After that I see the fire. The beautiful, beautiful fire. It devours our ceiling and my dad ushers us outside. Shame, and we were just about to land. Speaking of, the material stretched around the blimp has begun to melt. Through our ceiling spills out burning, dead bodies, their faces charred and slowly being corroded by the long tongues of orange and red fire. My eyes stretch wide in amazing. I almost don't hear the people jumping outside the blimp and falling to their deaths. I almost don't hear Desmond screaming and wetting his pants (or really I smell that last part) as father grabs him and jumps out the blimp. Bye bye.
Out of the corner of my eye I see mother poised to jump.
"Adelaide! What are you waiting for! We have to jump!" she cries, her makeup running down her face in black streams, her perfectly curled blond hair blowing around her face. This is when I realize no matter what I do I'm going to die. But what would I rather be? That girl who loves fire or that innocent girl whose life was tragically taken from her when she jumped out that blimp?
I'm going to go with the fire. I grin evilly at my mother and dive into the fire. I instantly feel it devouring my skin, gnawing away at my flesh and encapsulating my body. And I love it. A cackling sounds from somewhere, and it's a while until I realize it's me. My mother staring at me, stiff as a pencil, her face contorted into a horrified look. I can read her: she thinks I've been re-villified. But I've been like this since the very beginning. I guess she'll never have time to realize that, poor thing.
"Good bye, mother," I wave and drop to the floor. I'm dying in something I love. I'm staying me. Nothing feels better than not being fake and defying the people who want me to be. I'm finally free.