The Blaze on Breckenridge Terrace

You find yourself on your childhood block. It’s dark, especially with the streetlamps out. Up the street you can see your best friend’s house. After 21 years of knowing him, he’s still living there. You wonder if he’ll buy or inherit the house from his family. Having not seen him in years, you start to carefully tiptoe up the sidewalk. When you reach the house next door to his, a glow of light comes from behind you. You also feel the temperature rise. You turn around and see the house you just passed is on fire, the house you wanted to tiptoe and avoid, your childhood home. Or at least, the home you spent time with your father and his side of the family. Because with most of them out of this plane of existence, going back there is painful for you. Even though you are technically now a part owner with your sister and uncle. Even though you have such fond memories of that basement, you have fonder memories of spending nights at your friend’s house with his family, staying up until three in the morning. You start to turn around but realize you have something in your hands. In one is a canister of gasoline, the other a long lighter usually used for lighting grills. You then notice the trail of ablaze gasoline leading from you to the house. The odd thing is your feel relieved. Happy, even, that you put an end to your own dread. No ghosts to haunt you. No responsibility looming over you to help your sister keep her memories intact. No uncle-who-taught-you-how-to-collect-comics-turned-asshole to ignore anymore. That’s when you hear a man screaming. You know immediately who it is. From a downstairs window, you can see your uncle in a wheelchair banging for help. For a second you think to bother, but then you remember the bars he had installed on the first floor windows to avoid people from entering. He shut himself out from the outside world after they died. It’s fair; they were his entire world. He turned cold and bitter, selfish, became a survivalist without rejoining the workforce. You watch on as the fire around him warms his soul. You feel your eyes water, but you fight the tears from streaming down your face afraid they might extinguish the flames. This has to happen. This completes the set. Feeling at ease, you turn around and walk the last paces to your friend’s place. You walk up the steps. You ring the doorbell. You knock on the door. You ring the doorbell. You knock on the door. You sit on the steps. There are no cars on the street, none in the driveways. This is a private moment. A family affair. You turn your head to see your property cave in on itself.

You wake up.