Ashes

She fingers the red feather in her hand and compares it to the blood trickling down her forearm. They are both warm, soft, and that shocking crimson hue that never ceases to bring color to her dark, cold world. That's why she carries it with her. Because it reminds her that there may be something or possibly someone good left in this world. That… and it reminds her of the story her mother used to tell her when she was younger. When she was sober. And when a cut on her arm would bring her pain rather than leave her numb. She hears her mother's voice in her head for a moment. "The magical phoenix, it bursts into flames and then is reborn from its ashes. It starts over, good and brand new, just like we will when we get out of this house…" But then there is the contrasting recollection of her father, stumbling into the room with a pint of alcohol in his hand, clearly inebriated and blinded by rage. She doesn't realize he's got a gun in his other hand until he's fired and hit his target. She relives her mother's death as if it were yesterday, and she cries out in vain just as she did when she was eight years old. But the worst part is, he's still here, in this very house. Not only haunting her with memories but with his present, physical appearance as well. She takes a shuddering gasp of air and strokes the feather for comfort. She imagines she is a phoenix, becoming a wall of fire and then emerging from the cinders as an untainted newborn with no nightmares, with no past… She slowly stands up, carefully placing the feather in her pocket. And then she reaches for the basket above the fireplace, her fingers finding the object she longs for. She lights a match and places it to her clothing. Instantly, her brown dress is aflame, and she laughs as the fire envelops her. She is the phoenix from her mother's story, soaring free and feeling more alive than ever as her inferno spreads. And she realizes… she is finally warm.

He smells smoke and wonders where the hell it could be coming from. It's certainly not winter, so there's no reason why the fireplace would be lit. It's probably the girl, he thinks bitterly. She's always complaining about being cold, even when it's 100 degrees outside. Grumbling and chucking his remote to the ground, he gets up from his comfortable easy chair and makes his way to the basement. That's when he sees her. She's lying in a heap on the ground, her eyes shut, the flames dancing around her as if they are embracing her presence. He cannot move. Surely, the girl is dead, her face pressed to the ground like his wife's was… Same pink lips, same ebony hair, same untimely fate… thanks to him. He finally realizes that the fire is spreading and he needs to put it out if he wants to survive. He runs to the kitchen and grabs a bucket of water and then douses his daughter's corpse with it. He collapses to the ground and tries to remember how to breathe. The sight of a charred and blistered teenager is not helping. Why did she do it? he wonders. What pushed her to the edge? He crawls closer to her body and notices an object enclosed in her palm. His fingers brush hers, and for the first time in years, it's a gentle touch… that only he is alive to feel. He examines the object and realizes it's the skeleton of a bird feather… a phoenix? He stands up and a single tear of remorse falls down his cheek. But the emotion is soon gone and replaced with one of jealousy. Envy that she had enough courage to take her own life… Envy that she's freer than he'll ever be. He crumbles up the vestiges of the feather in his hand and staggers out of the room. There's nothing left in this house but his black heart and the promise of another day of suffering.