Burning

I remember when I could walk and run. I could dance and play, and easily conquer stairs and open doors. Now, I have to sit here. Sit here and watch as five bright young souls are extinguished, their lives cut short by the cruelty of fate. The agony of this moment is far beyond physical as I try in vain to comfort them, to tell them that everything is all right when we all know full well that it is anything but. Bright orange Satan’s tongues lick us, blistering our skin with hellish heat, evaporating tears on frightened faces. Twenty years ago, we all would have made it out alive. But now the chair meant to be an aide is my prison, my shackles. Suddenly I see myself in a hospital bed that day, staring into the face of a doctor. What was he saying? I looked down, and at that moment I realized that I would never truly be independent again. My legs were gone, far beyond repair. I could no longer run, or dance, or save five children from a burning house. Snippets of thoughts whirl around in my head, stolen from conversations long past. Accident, pity, crippled, useless. Useless, useless, useless, useless…. Being burned alive because some trucker thought it would be okay to chug whiskey and drive, regardless of whose poor legs might be in the way. Because my parents were too poor to afford prosthetics. Because I foolishly offered to take a baby-sitting job for my friend when I knew I wouldn’t be able to reach the door or the phone if my wheelchair were to topple over. It’s almost funny, the way I’ll go. Swamped in guilt, flames literally eating away my flesh, because of a door. A stupid white-painted piece of wood is all that’s standing in the way of our survival. The little children have stopped crying now. They, like me, know that their ends are near. And as I lean back into the flames, a single word drifts back into my head. Useless, useless, useless…