In Which I Burn, Baby, Burn

There was a percussive rush of air as the blue-orange flames suddenly burst alive. I stood in front of the fire, holding the spent match as flames raced across the floor like a flood. The ancient carpet and curtains might just as well have been soaked in gasoline, so I took a step back onto the polished hardwood. The air was getting thin in the room, with the blaze demanding more oxygen than the small room held, and the temperature was rising fast. After one last look at the shimmering inferno, I dropped the used match on the floor and turned to leave.

The knob on the door was almost too hot to touch, so I grabbed a handkerchief from my back pocket and placed it over the knob. I turned the handle, but it spun in my hands. Gripping it harder I tried again, but the knob stayed still. The fire roared behind me, and I turned around to see that it had spread from the carpet to the hardwood floor, just a few feet away from where I stood. I turned my focus back to the door, finding new motivation to work the stubborn knob from the approaching blaze.

With flames lapping at my heels now, I began to slam my shoulder forcefully into the door. I could hear the wood splintering, but it was getting hard to breathe. Each breath burned as it entered my lungs. I hadn’t expected the room to burn so quickly, just as I hadn’t expected the door to close behind me. I was getting weak from the lack of oxygen, but forced myself to try the door one last time. The skin on my hand melted as I gripped the knob, and I somehow turned it to one side.

The fire exploded into hallway on the other side of the door, igniting and finding even more strength the oxygen-rich air. With a force I could not have imagined before, I was picked up and thrown forward into the hallway, my clothes and hair smoldering. I hit the floor hard, gasping for air. I rolled on the floor away from the fire, and…

THUMP!

My shoulder ached from landing hard on the cool carpeted floor. Out of breath, I rolled to my back, confused. Where am I?

I sat up on my bedroom floor, trying to adjust my eyes to the dark.

“Are you okay?” The Boss croaks sleepily from under the covers.

“Yeah,” I reply, clearing my throat. “Bad dream, apparently.”

“I know. You were thrashing around, so I kicked you. You rolled away, and fell off the bed.” My bedside fan whirred quietly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I guess,” I said as I got up off the floor. “Remind me to not eat chocolate before going to bed again. It gives me really fucked up dreams.”

“Whatever. Just get back in bed so I can warm my feet on you. They’re freezing, and you’re on fire.”

“Tell me about it.”

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I’ve had many, many strange dreams, and I've blogged about a few of them, but this dream about my short-lived career as an arsonist definitely takes the cake.

No more eating before bed for me.