Friday Flash: The Cowardly Firemage

I burned her.

Oh, God. What is wrong with me? All those practice drills and I still char the first girl who kisses me.

The worst part is? I ran. Now I am waiting in a parking lot, wondering how I'm going to explain to Mom that I ruined our lives.

I know what she'll say first. Is she dead? I don't know. I bolted with the afterimage of flame still burning my retina. Abandoned her, just like that, in the deserted school hallway.

I'll say this as I'm getting in the car, and then Mom will jam her foot on the gas pedal, and I'll scream: have you no heart? But it's my fault, too, because I know she doesn't and still I'm standing here in the shadow of the janitor's exit, waiting for her like she's a chariot sent from heaven.

There should be an ambulance by now. She screamed right as we were blinded by the flash. I thought she screamed my name but all I really remember is my own pounding feet. I didn't see the damage, but I can imagine. If she lives, she'll need skin grafts.

I hold my breath to keep the guilt down, to keep my hands shoved in my pockets and my eyes on the road. I hear squealing tires and I see the black Toyota a block down. Hi, Mom. Sorry, Mom. I can't keep still any longer. I guess I have a heart because the foolish thing is pushing open the exit and pushing words out -

"Help!"