Katherine Brooke Writes

My apartment building went up in flames on a Thursday morning.

I was asleep when it happened. I had stayed up until 4:30 AM the night before working, which was unusual for me.

At about 9 AM, I heard banging on the front door and a faint alarm going off somewhere in the distance.

“You need to get out. NOW!”

“My girlfriend is still asleep in bed, and we have two cats.” That was Alex’s voice. My boyfriend. Panicked.

I was lying in bed, sprawled out in my underwear. I felt the emergency immediately.

The first thing I did was put on some clothes. I don’t even remember much. I remember looking around for the cats and not seeing them. Then a man, screaming in my face: “YOU NEED TO GET OUT RIGHT NOW! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” And the smoke. I remember the smoke, thick and black, overwhelming me. I couldn’t breathe.

I could die.

I should’ve looked for the cats. I should’ve waited for Alex.

But no, guess what I did? I ran. Down the stairs, out into the fresh air. It was instinct.

And the guilt I felt was just as effortless.

I waited out in the grass, numb. Waiting to see Alex. Waiting to see the cats. Feeling fucking useless.

How could I leave them behind?

And then I saw Alex . . . my heart sank when I saw his hands were empty.

“I couldn’t find them.” The sadness in his eyes was palpable.

And then we waited. We talked to the police, the firemen, our neighbors, friends on the phone, bosses, each other. But we were really just waiting. Waiting to see our babies. Our cats.

How could I leave without them?

Why didn’t I help Alex look?

Why was I so fucking useless?

These thoughts circled in my head. Over and over.

But then the firefighter pulled Alex aside, taking him upstairs. And then, after what felt like an eternity, I see Alex with cat carrier in hand. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt the tears wanting to fall.

Not yet. It’s not time to cry yet.

I needed my medication. My laptop.

It was far from over.

But my family was safe.

My family was safe.

And I could breathe.