Our House Fire

This short story is a work in progress. If you have any feedback, feel free to share. I have to cut about 200 words. If there is a section you find is unnecessary, don't hesitate to tell me.


Our House Fire
By: Tamara Peachy

The lights went out, and I listened for my mother’s reaction. She giggled with delight because she loved the dark. Maybe my mother assumed that lightening struck, even though there was no storm. Maybe my mother wondered if a bugler had cut the power. Maybe my mother’s hallucinations covered the lights with their black cloaks. The lights came back on again.

My thumb and pointer finger held the light switch. I began to flip it frantically up and down. I watched the lights blink on and off. I heard the click of the switch as the lights responded to my command. It was me; I caused the power failure.

I knew the consequences of my light switch antics. My mother’s attention was diverted from her own isolation and now was focused on my deviancy. I had to be an irritating thirteen-year-old to get her attention. My weapon was a light switch. I flipped the switch up for the ninth time when the war began.

“Stop flipping that switch! You will burn the house down,” my mother yelled.

The first time I played with a light switch, my mother warned me that such an action would cause a house fire. I didn’t know if that was true. I never knew if my mother’s words were true.

My mother’s eyes glazed over. They gradually moved away from me to stare at a corner where a pile of dirty clothes had accumulated. My mother was sitting in the living room recliner slightly rocking back and forth. The chair creaked as if to say such rocking was torture. The chair cried for relief, but the rocking continued.

“Mom!”

I tried to get my mother’s attention, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes were transfixed on the messy corner. I waved my arms, which also failed to produce the desired result. I resorted to the light switch again. Up and down. Up and down. My mother never ignored me when I messed with the light switch.

“Do you want to burn down the house? Are you trying to kill me?”

“The house won’t burn down just because I flip a stupid switch!” I shouted.

Secretly, my statement was not resolute. I wasn’t aware of the inner workings of lights or light switches. Maybe the wires would spark. Maybe my furious flipping would cause the wires to overheat. Maybe the house would burn, all because a flip of a stupid switch. But, I couldn’t trust myself to my mother’s ranting even with these reservations.

My dad was a construction worker and an electrician; he would know. I could ask him, but I feared sounding foolish. It was a strange question to start a conversation. I looked at the clock with the broken second hand; I had forgotten it mysteriously stopped working two days ago. I looked at the kitchen clock instead. My dad should have been home by now.

I apologized to my mother for flipping the switch. My mother didn’t acknowledge my apology. I wondered if it was useless to apologize. Apologies are pointless if the recipient ignores them.

After apologizing, I turned off every lamp and ceiling light to cater to my mother’s madness. According to my mother, the government needed to save energy. I cleared last night’s supper dishes off our musty living room couch and sat in the dark.

I grabbed the remote control, pressed the yellow power button, and the TV instantly responded. It illuminated the room with dancing rays of red and grey light. The dust on the entertainment center was thick and the TV picture was blurry due to the various smudges on the screen. The news anchor was reporting on the wildfires in California. Acres of forests and houses were being destroyed.

“Did you hear what I said? We need to save energy. Leave the TV off!” my mother bellowed.

“No! I’m watching the news.” I countered.

Turning off all the lights and lamps was absurd enough. I wanted some normalcy. I wouldn’t give up watching TV too; it was an addicting escape. My mother didn’t approve of my disobedience. I wondered if I should honor my mother’s request even if she was insane.

“She isn’t my daughter. I am not responsible for her actions.” my mother began to converse with her hallucinations.

This was one constant delusion in my mother’s insanity. She believed I wasn’t her daughter. It hurt the first few times I heard it. However, such a mantra becomes background noise after a few years. I rolled my eyes, and I strained to hear the TV over my mother’s nonsense.

“Numerous people still residing in parts of Ventura are being asked to evacuate,” the news anchor reported.

I heard a car door shut. My father’s work boots clunked on the front porch steps. He entered the door with several green grocery bags in his arms. He almost tripped on a pair of old sneakers left in the middle of the floor.

“Some help would be nice,” my dad said with a moan.

I came to his rescue by grabbing a gallon of milk that was hanging from his finger. I noticed a bottle of Dr Pepper in one of his grocery bags.

“No! Dr Pepper? She can’t have caffeine! Why do you always buy her caffeinated pop?” I said with complaint.

“Your mom wanted a Dr Pepper, so I got her a Dr Pepper,” he replied.

My dad placed the grocery bags in the kitchen, and then handed the Dr Pepper to his wife. Her eyes lit up, and she instantly unscrewed the top to take drink. She looked at her husband with approving eyes.

“President Nixon wants to promote you,” she said.

After hearing that absurd statement, my dad gave out a muffled laugh. He then leaned down to give his wife a tender kiss on her lips.

“How can you kiss her when she talks like that?” I said in disgust.

My dad sighed. He didn’t answer me or look at me. He continued to look into his wife’s eyes with affection and delight. He gave her another kiss, and then he went to the kitchen to start supper.

After an hour, the awkward confrontation had been forgotten. I watched some evening shows with my dad and we ate our supper without conversation. I couldn’t build up the courage to ask him about the light switch.

That night I would test my light switch theory. I waited till both of my parents were asleep. My dad went to bed around 10:00PM. I didn’t know when my mother would fall asleep. There were nights when my mother didn’t sleep at all. But, I was fortunate this night. My mother fell asleep around 1:00AM on the living room couch.

I decided to use the downstairs light switch. The light wouldn’t disturb anyone this way. The paint around the light switch was pealing. I helped peal some of the loose green paint. It revealed a dingy grey underneath. I placed my fingers on the light switch. I flipped it to the “on” position. I waited a moment before flipping it off again. What if I caused a fire? Maybe I should ask my dad like I planned earlier.

Ignoring the possible danger, I decided to continue. I flipped the switch back off and then flipped it on again. At first my rhythm was slow and steadied. I heard each click and witnessed the light’s instant response. Nothing happened outside of the expected. Maybe I needed to go faster.
My pace quickened. Up and down. Up and down. On and off. On and off. I became aggressive. I needed to know the truth. Could the light handle such fury? Up and down. Off and on. Would I cause a fire?

I could see the house going up in smoke in my mind’s eye. The red, orange, and yellow flames of hatred, aggression, and destruction were devouring the wood. The smoke was stealing all breathable air. I imagined my father being broken and devastated at the sight. All his hard work, all his devotion, and all his efforts were useless. The fire was unrelenting. The house was burning.

I continued to flip the switch until I realized the futility. There was no fire. The light was harmless just as I supposed. I was angry. I wanted the wires to spark. I wanted the wires to overheat. I wanted the fire. Then I could repent. Then I could look my mother in the eyes and say, “You were right, I should have listened to you.”