After I Burned Alive, They Still Expected An Apology

A fire broke out at the fraternity party. I desperately pushed Mia, my brother's girlfriend, out of harm's way, only to get pinned down by a falling beam myself. My brother Liam chose to save Mia first, kicking away my oxygen mask as he left. Mia then locked the door, leaving me to burn alive.

Yet they thought I was throwing a tantrum and playing hide-and-seek. They called me "toxic" and "attention-seeking" on social media, even freezing my credit cards.

…

Until firefighters dug out my charred corpse clutching the family crest from the ruins...**

The smell of roasting meat is distinct. It’s significantly worse when you realize it’s your own.

I hovered ten feet above the concrete floor of the Alpha Phi basement, staring down at the blackened, smoking lump trapped against the storage room door. Heat still radiated in violent waves, warping the air, but I felt absolutely nothing. No pain. No suffocation. Just a cold, razor-sharp clarity.

Further up the corridor, near the stairwell where the smoke thinned out, Liam shoved the heavy steel fire door open. He dragged Mia out into the cool June night.

"Stay here, Mia," Liam coughed. He wiped a smear of soot from his forehead, his chest heaving. He turned back toward the blinding orange glow of the basement. "I'm going back for Chloe!"

Mia’s fingers snapped out. She clamped onto the collar of his ruined Ralph Lauren polo like a vise.

"I can't breathe," she gasped. Her chest rose and fell in a perfectly choreographed, rapid-fire rhythm. "Liam, my panic attack... it's triggering my asthma. You can't leave me alone right now. I'm having a severe trauma response!"

She didn't have asthma. She had a prescription for an emergency inhaler that she carried around like a designer accessory.

Liam froze. One foot planted toward the flames, the other anchored by Mia’s grip. He looked down the smoke-choked hallway leading to the storage room. To me. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

I drifted closer, screaming right into his face. Move! Move, you idiot!

He didn't blink. He used to move for me. Two years ago, when the grease fire swallowed the Hastings' kitchen, Liam didn't hesitate. He charged straight through the flames, threw a heavy wool blanket over my head, and hauled me out to the lawn. He took a nasty second-degree burn to his own back for it.

Don't cry, Chloe, he had whispered to me in the emergency room back then, his skin raw and blistering. As long as I'm here, I'll always pull you out first.

That was before Mia discovered the absolute power of a "generalized anxiety" diagnosis. Before my street-survival instincts became "toxic energy" and her constant, manufactured fragility became his personal religion.

Liam’s internal debate in that frat house hallway lasted exactly four seconds. He gritted his teeth and turned his back on the fire.

"Chloe knows the emergency protocols," Liam muttered, the rationalization sliding easily off his tongue. "The firefighters are already going in."

He scooped Mia up bridal-style. "Okay. I've got you, Mia. I'm staying right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He marched up the stairs, carrying her toward the flashing red lights of the arriving fire trucks.

She kicked my oxygen mask away, you son of a bitch! I screamed. I threw my spectral fists against his broad shoulders. She kicked it away and jammed the door shut! I am already dead!

He walked right through my transparent hands.

I didn't walk or drive to St. Mary’s Hospital. I just willed myself there, tethered by pure, unadulterated hatred to the brother who left me to fry.

Mia lay in a pristine trauma bay bed. A nurse had slapped a single, cartoonishly small band-aid over a tiny scrape on her ankle. That was the absolute extent of her physical trauma. She held an oxygen mask loosely near her chin, making sure her tear-streaked face was still visible.

Liam stood over her, his hands gripping the ER doctor’s sleeve.

"She needs a full-body CT scan. Now," Liam demanded, using his best Hastings-family-attorney voice. "She has a documented history of severe respiratory distress! You need to run a full panel."

The doctor, a tired woman clearly pulling a double shift, yanked her arm out of his grip. "Sir, it’s mild smoke inhalation. Her oxygen stats are at ninety-nine percent. The skin on her ankle is barely broken. I have actual burn victims coming in from that frat house. Excuse me."

She brushed past him. Liam scowled, highly offended that his Ivy League entitlement didn't work on a triage nurse. He pulled his phone from his pocket and paced the linoleum floor.

He hit my speed dial.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

He hit redial. Let it ring out again. Nothing.

"Unbelievable," Liam muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose, glaring at the screen. "Chloe is definitely pissed that I brought you out first. She's throwing a tantrum and screening my calls."

Mia sniffled, adjusting her hospital blanket. "I told you she has a hard time regulating her emotions, Liam. She's probably just trying to punish us."

"Well, I'm not playing this game tonight," Liam snapped. He tossed his phone onto the plastic side table in disgust.

He didn't call the fire department to check the casualty list. He didn't call the police. He just pulled up a chair, sat down, and held Mia's perfectly manicured hand.

I stood inches from his face. My ghostly form vibrated with a rage hotter than the Alpha Phi basement. I leaned in, my voice dripping with pure venom right next to his ear.

I'm not screening your calls, Liam. My phone melted to my thigh bone. And so did I.