Baptism By Fire

‘Baptism By Fire’ by S.S. Harrington (@serenaisavillain / @s.s.harrington)

A flash fiction piece.

I can't remember the fire; I was old enough, but I just don't remember. When I close my eyes before I fall asleep, I get the smell and taste, mouthwatering, but in a bad way. I know our cabin was destroyed because I stood among the ashes, watching them slip through and stain my ivory fingers pitch black. Our livestock was depleted; Papa, Mama, Cathrine, and Missy were gone. I still wonder how such a thing could happen. The fire that was. We were a God-fearing bunch; at least Mama was. Nevertheless, we were Irish Catholics on both sides. We genuflected to the altar every Sunday, ate His body, and drank His blood. Tithed. Still, it all burned.

Now, there was no money in the bank. Papa didn't trust the government with his money; he only ever paid the taxman, and that was that. He kept our money in a hole in the mattress in his and Mama's room; I only knew because when Cieran died in Afghanistan, I became the eldest. I only had the clothes on my back smelling of smoke and everything Papa taught me. 

Men in our family always severed. It seemed like the right thing—the only thing to do. It wasn't much different from home. Woke up in the wee hours, just before Reveille blared through the speakers. No room for hesitation—bed made tight enough to bounce a quarter, boots laced, and outside in formation before you could say Jack Robinson. The air was sharp, cutting at my nineteen-year-old face, and the ground was still damp with dew, allowing me to sink a little further than I already was in the mud. Then PT—pushups, sit-ups, and running as far as my legs could carry me and some more while the sun still dragged itself over the horizon. The sweat of my brow stung my eyes, but there was no stopping, no slowing down. Adulthood started now. 

The only real difference was the food. I missed Mama's good eats but couldn't complain; it was better than going hungry. I never made many friends and never did get used to flames, the smell of burning flesh and the sounds of screaming men, but I became accustomed to gunfire and the smell of metal- bullets and heavy artillery. 

S.S. Harrington writes from the quiet places inside us all, where sorrow and hope pass like old friends. Her stories chase the mysteries we feel but can’t name, and somehow, even in the darkest moments, a little light always stays.