To Create is How I Live.

I watched the flames lick up towards the sky; the oranges, yellows and blues were dangerous but I didn’t know why. It was dark in the house other, than the light that came from outside. It was cold with the absence of light, like nothing in the house was alive as if everything was left to rot away. The only thing moving was me. My 6-year-old feet gently stepped across the creaky old floor trying not to wake the ghost that slept in the room next to mine. Her soul was only at peace while she was slept. My goal was to get to my parents’ room, so I could huddle in the warmth of their bed that mine didn't offer in the darkness of night. The giant stained-glass doors into their room were foreboding, making them hard to open in fear that the lady would be there, waiting. But before I could get the doors all the way open, I heard a noise from outside where the lights were coming from. Turning slowly, then approaching the front door, I peered out the side window. Sitting around the glowing flames were my parents and blurry-faced figures. They were laughing and talking while I stood all alone in the house, frozen. A ticking in my ears was the only thing I could hear, which was odd because we didn’t have a clock. “Mommy?” I squeaked. She couldn’t hear me behind the glass. It was getting colder even in the lights-glowing warmth. I was stuck there, shaking. Little time passed before I found myself waking up in bed. The sun was peaking through the green curtains of my room. What happened after I saw the fire will always be a mystery locked away. But it was okay because what happened that night was forgotten behind the glass as the sun rose.