WildFire
676 Words
The memory always starts with the smell of ozone and the sound of a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
I was five years old, and the world was supposed to be made of birthday cake and the excitement of turning a year older. April 22nd—Earth Day. My mother always told me I was a gift from the land itself, a "daughter of the soil." But that night, the soil felt like it was turning into a furnace.
The screams were the first thing to cut through the heavy veil of sleep. At first, I thought they were part of a dream, the kind where you’re running through tall grass and can’t find your way home. But then the heat hit. It wasn't a gentle warmth; it was a physical weight, a blazing hand pressing against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs before I could even cry out.
I remember pulling myself upright, my small hands trembling against the sweat-soaked sheets. The hallway was a roar of orange and yellow. Then, she was there. My mother, her hair wild and her eyes streaming tears, burst through the door.
"Gaia! Stay low!" Her voice wasn't the soft lullaby I was used to; it was a command that vibrated in my very bones. She didn't just grab me; she shielded me with her own body. "Take slow breaths, baby. Hold onto my shirt. Do not let go."
We crawled. The floor was hot enough to blister, and the smoke was a thick, oily beast that wanted to swallow us whole. I didn't realize then that I was the last one she came for. My father was gone—out doing who-knows-what, leaving his family to roast in the hearth of our own home. I remember the feeling of something shifting inside me—a restless, ancient power that didn't want to die. It felt like a flood of cool water hitting a hot stove.
"Gaia, keep your eyes open!" my mother screamed as we reached the threshold.
"Yes, Mommy," I whispered. I was so tired. The smoke felt like a blanket. I remember thinking about my birthday, about the party I wouldn't have, and then the world simply stopped.
I woke up three years later.
The transition from five to eight happened in the blink of a scarred eye. I woke up in a room that smelled of sterile chemicals and sharp grief. A doctor walked in, and before he even spoke, I knew he was different. He smelled of forest floor and wet fur—a shifter. He smiled at me, but I didn't recognize his face or the name on my chart.
Then, a nurse walked in. The moment she crossed the doorway, my soul surged. She smelled like home. She smelled of Yarrow, Dragon’s Blood, and Mugwort—the scents of a practitioner, a witch.
"Why are you crying?" I asked. My voice sounded like rusted metal. I reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, my fingers feeling heavy and clumsy.
"I’m happy," she sobbed, catching my hand. "I’m so happy my baby sister is finally awake. Gaia, it’s me. It’s Maia."
The recognition hit me like a physical blow. The fire. The smoke. My mother.
I woke up fully that night to the sound of a soft voice and the scent of hibiscus. My mother was there, her eyes filled with a weary joy. As she pulled me into her arms, the memories didn't just return—they ignited. I learned that my wolf, Atabey, had woken up that night in the fire. She had wrapped me in a cocoon of blue, gold, and brown light, protecting my lungs and healing my mother’s burns even as I drifted into a coma.
Atabey had saved us, but she had taken three years to put me back together. Now, standing on the edge of twenty, I realize the wildfire never really went out. It just moved inside.
- Writer
