Inferno

-
Avery

Fiction story written 11/13/18, a few days following the tragic Borderline shooting and Woolsey fires, two events that shook our community and altered my outlook on life. This short story is one of many that I would like to share, and it is one I had actually forgotten about until now. It's no masterpiece, but it is something that best reflects my state of mind during November of 2018. I wanted to write something that highlights the detriments of materialism and how items offer no true source of peace or joy, because ultimately, they are fleeting. 
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Ten minutes. 
That’s it? For seventeen years’ worth of belongings? Insane, are they? 
Isabella Beaumont – a girl with a mellifluous name who garnered the attention of lovestruck boys and envious girls – scrambled; but not the way she did on Black Friday or when police sirens echoed from a distance during a round of beer pong at Sally’s, but in a way that drained each and every ounce of joy from her body. Only one thing pervaded her mind. Fear made her teeth quiver with the uncontrollability of a chainsaw and forced her fingertips to quiver, to maintain a grip so weak that in Isabella’s hands, every item she frantically carried to her bags bore the risk of plummeting to its death against the hardwood floor. 
Not even maids or butlers could aid her now. Fires, well they don’t really care about anything, or anyone, at all – they just do their job. 
“Bella, if you take any longer –” Mrs. Beaumont was cut off by her querulous twins of seven years old, who were incessantly complaining about the “barbeekyoo” smell seeping in through the windows.  
Jean jacket from Barbara. Camera. Computer. Sweater from Steve. Sunglasses. Phone. Necklaces. Bracelets. Rings. Earrings. Postcards from England. Toiletries. Fedora. Shirts. Tees. Bear, bunny, Elmo. Skirts. Levi’s. Heels. Converse. Boots. Vans. Adidas. 
“NOW!” bellowed Mrs. Beaumont. So curtly had she popped into the room that she had popped out, unable to see the bleakness in Isabella’s eyes, which lacked their standard vivacity and sass and were replaced with doubt and sorrow and all the terror of a queen – a queen whose kingdom was to be a heap of rubble in several hours’ time. 
Clutching two canvas totes and a monstrous-sized suitcase, Isabella clambered down the carpeted staircase and exited the house. 
My house.
On the highway, cars swarmed like locusts, struggling to evade the impending flames and desperately seeking refuge in the parking lot of a motel, or, if they were particularly lucky, the driveway of a family member. 
“Bella, wanna play fruit ninja?” 
“No. No thanks.”
“Why? You always do.”
“Please shut up, Asher.”
“MOMMMM!!”
Isabella tuned out her mother’s scolding, staring out at the blaring lights of cars replete with suitcases and frantic drivers.
In Santa Barbara, at her cousin's beach house, Isabella didn’t talk. 
“The beach is good for you right now, come on,” her mom would say. But she didn’t understand.   
Isabella coughed up a “hi” or “good” here and there to give her aunt the satisfaction of some familial interaction, but spent every hour of remaining daylight in a distressed slumber on 
the cream futon. 
. . .
Hey, it’s my house! Everything’s here! Did the fire never reach us?
No. It’s coming. 
NO. STOP IT, SOMEONE, STOP IT.
Nobody was listening to me. I paced towards the house, blinded by the blazing flames. I entered the house, which was slowly being consumed by the inferno. 
It raged on and on, but I had to get through it – I had to save more. 

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