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The Smoke, The Flame, and Me

I am in pain.
My sister has erupted into flame, her mouth spitting smoke.
Angry, grey smoke.
Screaming words, slicing the family ties until all that remains is a tattered, frayed string.
The smoke winds its way around the house, coming to find me, searching for me, hunting me down.
It forms itself into a hand, reaching its way down my throat, into my chest, winding its fingers round my lungs.
I am suffocating.
Gasping, strangled, struggling for breath, but my sister is still ablaze, still spewing smoke. It won’t stop coming.
The smoke unfurls into a demon, with fiery eyes, hands that try pull me into the flame.
I run. Yelling, praying, sobbing, I escape into the street.
I make my way to the bay, away from that warzone of a house, the ruins of which are smoldering behind me.
I smell the bitter, painful smoke.
Looking down, I realize my a portion of my soul has caught on fire, slowly burning up, the heat spreading to my chest.
I need to put it out! My spirit is getting singed as my soul is being consumed, flames licking it up with pleasure.
Water! Only water can put out the fire.
I look around desperately for something, anything that can save me.
But I struggle, grappling with the flames inside of me. It appears they are going to win.
As I fall, I feel a new heat making its way across me. It feels different, however, from the flames in my house, my soul.
It is warming. Kind.
Looking up, I see a glorious sphere of golden light, resting in a sea of pink, slowly sinking from the sky, disappearing from view.
The beauty and serenity rain down on me, drop by drop extinguishing the fire, the flame, the

smoke, cooling my charred body, soothing my wounded mind.

I am at peace once more



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