Chapter 1
Grace
The thick smoke inthe air invades my lungs, and I cough uncontrollably. Stumbling through my bedroom, I think about how my life has spiraled in the last couple of months. Lately, I’ve felt as if I’ve hit rock bottom. No, it isn’t just a feeling. I really am at the lowest point in my life.
Hiding my nose in the crook of my elbow, I hurry to the window leading to the fire escape. My last sliver of hope that I might make it out of here dies when I try pushing the window up and it won’t budge.
Reminded that the stupid window has been stuck for weeks, I groan. I’ve pestered my landlord tirelessly about the danger of my blocked fire escape. Unfortunately, she’s an old lady who forgets things a minute after you tell her.
Briefly, I wonder if Mrs. Walsh is okay. If the place is on fire, she’ll need help to make it out. I’m not sure how bad things are because I just woke up to the place filled with smoke. There were no fire alarms or smoke detector alerts—naturally, since this old building is one strong wind away from collapsing and nothing works properly in this place.
I figure the big guy upstairs took pity on me and woke me up. Things haven’t been going my way for a while, so surely, he doesn’t want me to die on top of everything else. Blindly feeling my way through my apartment, I try to be optimistic. Maybe the fire isn’t that bad, and I can use the staircase to escape. There’s a definite downside to living on the eighth floor.
When I make it to the front door, I sigh my relief—or sputter, rather, because the smoke is stifling. Reaching for the doorknob, I let out a cry. The metal is blistering hot. Pain laces my palm and I jump back reflexively.
That’s not a good sign. All the fire safety classes I took in school come rushing back. My scalding hot doorknob means the fire is dangerously close and I shouldn’t open the door. Yet, I really want to. There could still be a chance of escape.
I’ve been told that I can be foolishly optimistic sometimes. I guess this is one of those moments. Grabbing a jacket from the coat hanger beside the door, I wrap it around the doorknob.
What greets me on the other side makes my heart sink into my ass. There’s a full-blown inferno blazing in the hallway. There’s no way out for me. Slamming the door shut, I back away from the door. Now this is truly rock bottom.
“It can’t get any worse,” I whisper hoarsely. My throat is already burning from the smoke.
I shouldn’t have said that out loud, because luck screws me over once more. A loud cracking sound comes from above. Looking up with dismay, I see the plasterboard tearing away and I move just as a huge chunk falls right where I was standing.
Panic sets in and I spin around in circles, not sure what to do. The thunderous sound of the ceiling dislodging jolts me back to my senses. Thinking fast, I dive under the wooden coffee table and curl into a fetal position. With my hands covering my head and my eyes tightly shut, I listen to what sounds like the entire ceiling collapsing. Shaking like a leaf, I pop one eye open and try to kick away the debris. It’s no use. Still, I keep trying, putting more muscle into it. Nothing.
It’s dark and I’m trapped in a tiny space. At least on the floor I can breathe a little better. And by some miracle, I wasn’t killed by the collapsed ceiling. There are only stinging sensations on my legs, indicating some scrapes. But I know I’m going to die, anyway. My little cocoon will soon be engulfed in flames.
Trying to hold back tears, I think about the last two months. I lost my job and have been one step away from eviction. I’ve also come very close to having to drop out of school. Then, my dick of a boyfriend dumped me for the hippie lady that runs his favorite cannabis shop—I hope he chokes on all his free weed. Now, I’m trapped in my burning apartment, about to lose my life.
I take back what I said earlier. Things can get way worse. They already have.