“Come out, Mia, I know you’re still here.” Irene calls as she stalks down the hall from the foyer of the abandoned home. The heels of her boots thump along and make tiny indents in the soft wood floor. A bit of moonlight comes in through the windows, adding a milky glint to the knife she carries. “The doors are all locked, the windows glued shut. Where exactly do you think you can go?”
She steps into the kitchen and wastes no time wading through piles of old trash. The smell would be sickening if she could process anything but her own blood seeping from a large re-opened gash across her chest, courtesy of an irresponsible driver the previous week. It’s in vain, however, as even after going through every cupboard and crevice, she does not find Mia. In a last ditch effort, she grabs an old fridge and pulls it down. Briefly, she’s elated when a pair of eyes meets hers, but the excitement disappears when she realizes it’s a mere rat.
“Mia. You’re looking rather squeaky today.” She chuckles at her own poor joke and snatches up the rat before it can scamper away. It has enough sense to avoid biting her, but not enough to stay still in her palm. It writhes, amusing Irene. She holds it up by the scruff of its neck to inspect its furry body before dropping it lamely into the kitchen sink.
It disappears down the drain with a quiet pattering of paws.
Irene, once more alone, continues her search by heading into the dining room. She kicks over the chairs and table, a vase or two shattering in the process. The clatter would be deafening if she could hear anything but the throbbing of her own heartbeat in her head. She finds no new friends here, much to her disappointment, and begins to regret letting the previous one go.
“It’s only a matter of time, why don’t we make this easy on ourselves?” She grabs one of the many forgotten bottles littering the floor and pops off the metal cap using her knife. While stuffing a rag into the top of it, she passes under an arch to enter the living room. Between decorative cabinets in every corner as well as a massive couch in the center, Irene decides it’s not worth the trouble of tearing through it all.
“I don’t enjoy doing this, you know.” With little care, she pulls out a box of matches and strikes one. Then, she holds the flame to the rag until it ignites, and throws the newly formed molotov onto the floor in front of the couch. The glass shatters easily because of the damage already done to its outside and sends fire splashing on the floor and couch. Satisfied by the threat, Irene turns back down the entry hallway and goes upstairs, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.
“Please, I won’t hurt you, okay? Just come back to me.” In case Mia was watching, Irene makes a show of stabbing the blade into a section of the wall, and leaves it embedded there. Still responseless, she stumbles around the banister and heads to the only accessible bedroom, the guest. The master room had a very unstable floor, even stepping inside could be dangerous.
Announced by creaks, she steps into the guest room, and looks around. Its furniture was mostly gone, having been taken with Mia when she left to move in with Irene and another friend during their college years. All that remains is a pair of thick curtains covering the windows and a single stool in the corner.
“…” Her heartbeat throbs even louder in her ears. Stairs she used to sprint up every day in her youth have left her completely winded. “Mia…”
A flash of movement behind a curtain suddenly forces Irene into action. She staggers forward and slams her body into… nothing. The window behind the curtain had been opened the smallest bit, letting in a draft. Trying to force herself upright again, she smears blood along the fabric, and sparks sharp pains around the rest of her body.
There was only one place left to look.
The bathroom.
Her shoes drag and their soles are riddled with splinters by the time they touch ceramic tiles. In front of Irene is an old sink, equally old bathtub, and the shattered remains of a toilet. There was no shower nor shower curtain. Just an empty bathroom. A little bit of light comes in from a frosted glass panel in the back wall, just under the ceiling, but that’s all.
Irene is alone in this crumbling shell of a childhood home. It wasn’t even hers. Why is she here? What was she expecting to find? Since the rat downstairs, she hasn’t seen so much as a spider, much less a full human.
But no! No, there must be something she missed. Surely there is something she missed. Mia couldn’t just disappear. She was here, somewhere. She has checked every room she could.
Except…
Irene wheezes as she throws her body toward the master bedroom. Her vision blurs as a hand comes into view. It looks like her own, its finger has her ring, but she doesn’t feel it press against the door like her sight suggests she should. Everything around her is melting into one mass of everchanging colors and for a second, it almost looks like it’s rotating. She sees a blur under her eyes and knows her face is trying to smile, which makes her want to smile more.
Well, that is until her head comes into contact with a layer of rotting wood, hitting it with a disgusting crack. The impact rattles her very bones and brings her back into reality.
And then she hears another crack. And a snap. And a loud wailing creak.
Irene is barely able to jerk her body back out of the doorway before the entire floor caves in. Smoke pours up from the gaping hole and quickly plasters itself to every surface upstairs, including Irene. She chokes, gags, and scrambles until her back hits the low sill of a window. This one, of course, is locked.
Sweat drips down her brow as she stares forward at the flames licking up the stairs. The gash on her chest has slowed its bleeding but it’s too late. The front of her shirt is completely soaked with blood and sweat, and even the slightest movement dazes her. Heat pulses up from below.
She lifts her hand, the one with the ring, and stares at the gleaming metal. It had just been a simple thing they’d both bought soon after graduation, a celebratory reward for themselves, but Irene can’t remember either of them taking it off afterwards.
… That was until last week. It’s almost amusing how perfectly she can recall the image when it’s far too late.
Fire, like there was now.
Smoke, like there was now.
Blood, like there was now.
And Mia. The way the car had crumpled, had rolled. The way a shard of the windshield had pierced right through. The last thing Irene can recall before she was hauled away into an ambulance was how the red and blue lights reflected in the silver of Mia’s own ring. It was the only part of her that remained after.
At least, Irene supposed, there were no screams.