Burning Bridges

Photo by Joël de Vriend on Unsplash

The fire was getting closer. It's deep machine like growl a roar in his ears. The wind shifted and he felt the heat of it on his face as his eyes filled with the stinging smoke. He didn't have much time, he didn't have any time. He walked back into the house, slowly, deliberately, terrified of letting any of its inhabitants catch on to the danger just outside their door. Ignoring the turning heads from the dining room, kitchen, living room, as he moved towards the stairs. His bag was where he'd left it, under the bed, it had lain there untouched for so long. He'd thrown it there just after he'd arrived at the house. He never came back for it, but he'd never unpacked it either.

Now, after all those years he slid it out from its hiding place. It would have everything he'd need. It had served him well before, it would do so again.

On his way back down he took a different route, slipping through a narrow staircase which had originally been built for the mansion's servants, but had long since fallen into disuse.

The staircase came out in the pantry. He knew he would have to cross the kitchen to leave by the broken old mesh door which led to the backyard, but it pained him.

He'd taken every precaution he could to leave as quietly and discreetly as possible, but he couldn't avoid the house's many inhabitants entirely.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, he thought, he would've liked to say goodbye to Hannah anyway.

Of course she wouldn't know that that last goodbye meant forever, but it still meant something to him.

As he slipped out the door he thought of Hannah, sitting in the kitchen late into the night waiting for him to come back from his walk. It wasn't a pleasant thought, It almost made him turn back toward the rickety old house, but it was too late.

Those people had chosen their fate long ago.

The smell of smoke pressed down on him like an immense weight.

It pressed down on him, mind and body, and as he walked away from the house, an ember flitted through the air, coming to rest on the old dry porch. It wasn't long before the crackle of burning wood followed him down the path. Don't look back, he whispered, it's just another bridge burnt.