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The Fire That Isn’t
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There’s no fire, no flames, but my house is on fire. My house goes up in flames every day. I hide in my room, but the voices go on and on, louder, louder, until I want to scream, too. Then it comes–the thwack. Another. “Stop it. Stop it.” But it doesn’t stop. I hear the crash of plates or cups or saucers, the clatter of spoons or forks or knives. A kitchen’s full of knives–knives in drawers, knives in butcher blocks. I wonder if someone will pick one up one day. Then what? A stab on the cutting board? The knife tip stuck in the wood. I hear the knob squeak as it turns on the back door. Is someone running out? Mom or Dad? I wait for silence. If I’m lucky, it’ll last til morning. I shove my dresser against the door just in case.

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