rush.

She runs, though the flames, enormous as they are, seem to merely amble.

From time to time, they release a violent yawn-roar, as though freshly awakened from a lengthy winter’s hibernation – followed often by the crashing surrender of another building unfortunate enough to lie in the fire’s indiscriminate path.

The fear is cold despite the heat of the vibrating air. Sweat fogs her vision as she grapples with her hair, pulling it back and frantically twisting a strip of fabric to hold it there. Her normally deft fingers shake as she fights to tie the simplest knot – fails, curses – starts again.

All the while she still runs, every pounding step jolting out of sync with her frantic heartbeat.

She knows she is bleeding, but doesn’t feel the pain where it comes from.

The streets are filled with loud noises – cries, screams, shouts, shots, and sirens – but she is focused on avoiding the debris: wood, glass, bodies, metal, more metal. 

This was once a street lamp; this, a restaurant sign; this, perhaps a car door—distinctions grow increasingly unimportant. Categories of identification are subconsciously reduced. Everything is an obstruction, measured by levels of manageability in a fleeting haze.

She wipes her eyes and lowers her gaze toward feet whipping back and forth. She realizes after a moment that they belong to her.

Against the conflagration, the stark silhouettes of structural remnants become twisting, oppressive cast iron shards, a leering grin illuminated.

She dodges something that is ablaze and moving, and then remembers to breathe – instantly regrets it, as she inhales a lungful of smoke. She coughs violently, tastes the faintest flavor of warm blood.

Like the black engulfing the city, her mind chokes on ambiguity: nothing is quite certain, nothing is quite reliable, nothing is quite true.

Except that she must run.