You don't take anything

Screaming at 6 a.m. jars me from my sleep. Echoing down the halls of the apartment, the wails of terror push through the smoke and haze of morning. Help me. Help me. Like the cry of a beaten lover, the sound resonates through my heart, bringing it to my throat. It takes a minute to register the sound of the fire alarm through the darkness of the apartment. This is real. This is not a test. The alarm cries out for us all to get up and move. Do something. Do something. Now more voices, but the most shrill still overpowers us all. I turn to my partner. He opens his mouth but no words pierce past the blanket of sound that covers us. We launch ourselves from bed, scrambling for clothing. Yoga pants. Tank top. Grey sweater. Wool socks. More screaming. Get out. Get out. The alarm begs us to go. Winter boots. Winter coat. Purse. Keys. It is wrong what they say about deciding what to take in a fire. You don’t take the albums. You don’t take the art. You take yourself and the one you love. Touch the door, like they taught us in elementary school. It’s not hot. Black smoke pushes its way under the door like an unwanted flyer. Go away. Go away. The alarm blinds us in the hallway. The smoke and white noise makes it too much for the senses. I slip on the stairs. My neighbour catches me like mouse in a hawk’s claws – drags me outside. I open my mouth to call out. I am choked. Just like the dream where you call out and nothing comes out. But this is real. This is not a dream. The alarm reassures us. You are nearly safe. You are nearly safe. Follow my voice. We emerge into the icy February morning, pushed by the sirens inside and out. Crying from all. Flames eating the building alive, consuming the torment. You are safe say the stars. You are safe.