Fire: The Collapse

by William Esmont

A sour-faced man loomed at the foot of Megan’s bed, staring at her, frowning. Then he was a woman. No. Two women, with sad eyes. Then a man again, but not the same. Then nothing. No one.

  Warmth crept around her thighs and then under, coating her ass, wet, like the ocean in the summer. It feels good. Then it became cold, and she hated it. It was morning but it wasn’t. Night. Or is it still morning?

  Again.

  Christmas day when she was eight. The blue ornament with baby Jesus on the front. Falling, smashing, and disintegrating. Chloe is crying.

  Deep in the recesses of her mind, Megan knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t make it stay still long enough to touch, to name. Reality swirled past as if she were a stationary stone in a stream wearing her away bit by bit.

  She slept.