The Sounds of Fire.
She roams with an empty stomach through an alley drowning in flames, fueled by words she can’t understand. The flickering heads of other passengers torch the aisles without burning anything, inextinguishable.
Blood is dripping from her lip, glimmering crimson between her loose teeth. Her cheeks are stiff and swollen. Blue and green patterns dance amicably beneath a thin layer of her skin. The sight of her would be daunting, but she doesn’t need to hide her face. No one can see it but her.
Twenty-something years of this should have left her dry, should have made deserted tunnels of her veins and arteries. Instead, the blood pools at her feet and follows her, moving where she moves, and not a single step further. She and her velvet maroon shadow find their place in the flames, and, almost without intention, are thrust and captured, wedged lazily between 28A and 28C.
By a force unknown to her (candid perseverance or comfort, perhaps), she takes the seat belt from her left side and stretches it across the vastness of her flesh. Her pelvis is a war-torn mountain, an empty valley, a sea of rising tides, and then, nothing. She buckles the traveling metal onto the right side of the seat.
The flames around her crackle and sputter, dancing in conversation across her body. They don’t touch her. It is not clear whether they noticed she had come between them, at all. Debris is passed over her lap. In rapid succession: a water bottle, a Patagonia jacket, a clear zip-lock bag containing a half-eaten apple. After a moment, when she is sure they are done, she leans forward, giving way to her own weight, and rests her head somewhere in the dense air. She takes a breath, not because she is safe, nor because she is tired, but because she has postponed it quite enough.
Her bones reflect the red and orange from behind her ripped skin. Her ribs are exposed, glistening while she heaves. And not unpredictably, Dr. Carlisle’s advice rings faintly, stupidly, in her ears. Inhale, Exhale doesn’t do the trick in smoke this thick.
Some time ago, she might have been overcome by a senseless shaking in her fingers, a violent trembling in her chest. Today, there is only the rhythm of ceaseless dripping from her mouth onto the worn, tray table.
The flames roar loudly. Their volume is meaningless to her. Before, when they were people, she could speak their language, with some effort. In this form, they are unintelligible.
It doesn’t take long for the opaque smoke of unfamiliarity to reach her lungs. She opens her mouth for a moment to let this thing in her throat escape. It claws at the insides of her neck, without actually moving anywhere. Her mouth is still open, bright red, and raised upwards. She looks as though she is saying something. Her chin is moving. The blood is lacing in the small dark gap between her lips.
She closes her eyes, the tears evaporating from her face before they can journey across her cheeks. She is not praying. She is begging. Begging for a moment of comprehension. The sound of a human voice, the sight of human skin.
And right on queue, taunting her with their timeliness, the words come from a rasping voice above.
“We’d like to remind passengers that snacks and drinks are available for purchase in the aircraft.”
Beggars can’t be choosers.
