She felt it through the mattress, hot breath like sulphur and wildfire. When darkness wakes, it stirs to life. Jagged claws scratched the wood floor below, and angry exhales nudged the slatted bed frame.
“Just breathe,” she whispered, knowing that by morning this would all be over.
But the burnt smell thickened, while flames cast cautionary shadows in the sliver of light beneath the doorway.
Faulty wiring, they would later say.
A giant hand with sinewy fingers reached up from below. With big eyes and a gentle grip, it scooped her into his arms, safely away from that fiery place.
Author bio: Rachel Wallach is a communications professional, who likes to write. She lives in South Florida.
Aflame is part of 101 Fiction issue 17.
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