LXXXVIII | Some Appearance

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Third last step
and I finally get it.

Ashes

like black wisps of paper,

float
through the air.
Dark clouds

rising from the ground

like the world’s
turned

upside down.

Rain is pouring
from above

into the clouds below.

The heat burns,
like I’ve entered
an oven.

Flashes of colour,

amber,
white,
orange,
red,
black.

Flickering lights.

A foul smell.
Choking.

My throat is raw.

I’m coughing, I think.

Can’t hear
over the siren.

It continues to pulse
against the hand

I’m pressing against the wall.

Warmth wraps round me.

Who put Singapore
inside the oven?!

The taste of blood.
My own.

I’m retching.

Vomit.

FIONA, STAY UPSTAIRS.

The voice manages
to be louder

than the siren.

(Of course, it does.)

(It’s coming from the walls.)

Tammie!

I wipe my spit
on my sleeve

and remember.

My head swims,
it’s getting hard to breathe.

Queenie’s fairies

multiply
in front of me.

They’re screaming

with the voice
of the whining siren.

Someone tugs on my arm.

FIONA, GO UPSTAIRS.

I turn my head.

The movement is slow,
even to me.

He’s wearing
a gas mask,

the smoke makes it hard to see
the eyes in it.

He pulls me up the stairs,
my feet follow.

I’m pressed into him.

Not the usual nurse’s uniform.
Who is he?

This person in an astronaut’s suit.

I feel the foreign texture
of thick canvas.

So bizarre.
Where did he
come from anyway?

Is he real?

I pull away from him.
He’s stronger.

I’m being dragged
up the stairs.

I protest.

The siren drowns me out.

My stomach lurches,
the taste of blood chokes me.

I go limp

because it hurts
and I can’t tell

where the pain’s coming from.

FIONA, STAY UPSTAIRS.

I’ve lost my balance,
and let myself

be carried—dragged

up the stairs.

The wood beneath me

is too hot.

My skin burns.

Hands lower me
onto the stairs.

Holds my head low.

Wet cloth
pressed to my mouth.
I struggle.

I’m almost on the landing.

Haven’t quite made it.

I push,
struggle,
fight.

His canvas hands
are hard to understand.

I can’t see

what he’s gesturing.

He gives up,
grabs my hand,

presses it

to my own mouth.

Hold this wet towel.
It’s for you.

He’s not a kidnapper.

I do what he wants.

He lets go
of my head.

I scramble away.

Tammie! Tammie!

I jump down the stairs.
There’s jolting pain

up my legs.

I’ve broken some toes.

But the whining siren,
the unbearable heat,

every sensation
but pain
assaults me.

FIONA, GO UPSTAIRS.
FIONA, GO UPSTAIRS.
FIONA, GO UPST–.

The voice gives up.

I run deeper into the smoke.

The siren continues wailing.

I’m running,
but I can’t see.

So I fall.

There’s carpet in my mouth.
I’m groping around.
My chin goes numb.

Then my hands close around flesh

and water.

It’s a foot.

Hanging from one of the armchairs.

I can’t see

because of
the smoke

but I shake the sleeping figure.

Not Tammie.

The body falls
from the armchair.

I think I scream

because Queenie’s fairies
turn into brownies or gnomes—

whichever is bigger.

My head’s
imperceptibly lighter.

The world

gets darker.

The water turns
sticky in my palms.

 

 

 

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