Death Is A Silent Spark

Ram Beri, 8th Grader || 10.27.18


I desperately banged on the door, crying out my mother’s name, “Mother, Mother!” The cramped room seemed to be alive, stealing and corrupting the air around me. I grasped my throat, gulping in every breath I can take. I blacked out.


“Help! My daughter’s inside!”

As rehearsed, the firefighters busted into the flaming doors of the apartment, seeking the missing child. Embers exploded, releasing shards of wood, aimed to pierce the heart of the heros. Still, they proceeded, hacking door after door with no success.  It was until the last door did they find my room. The wine red color faded, burnt by the flames, leaving the door smothered with ashes. With their dying strength, they heaved their axes, puncturing crevices in the door.

“What’s taking them so long?” wailed my mother.

My mother was always the rash one in the family. When my father left, she grabbed and hugged me deeply, chanting the words, “Don’t worry, mommy is here.” From then to now, she’s been my guardian angel, fussing over every little detail involving me. To illustrate this point, when she drops me off to school, she would  slobber a kiss goodbye and holler out “I Love you!” She never understood how embarrassing she was. Everyday, my classmates would howl, “Mama’s little boy,” just to slither out a priceless reaction of flowing tears trickling from my eyes. I never told her about the teasing.

Charging in the burning apartment, my mother grasped the ends of her shirt and pulled it over her head, protecting her eyes from the infested air.

“What are you doing?”

“Are you insane!”

She bursted toward my room, charging straight through the flames. Her ivory skin sizzled as it skimmed by the  embers. She gagged, unable to inhale the monstrous air. Still, she dragged on, her body aching and sore, determined to save her “little prince.” Only inches away, she tumbled to the ground, landing with with a giant thump.

“What was that sound?” a firefighter questioned.

“I-I don’t know, but we need to get out of here soon.”

My ears were ringing. I fluttered my eyelids, but they refused to open. My body ached, my tummy rumbled, and my eyes burned.  I saw nothing.

Struggling , the firefighters flung the wooden plank out of the way from the door and tore the door open. There they found my mom in the corner of the room, clutching the wall with one hand.

“Who is this woman? Get her out of here!”

The fire was caused by a stranger who threw away his cigarette butt  on our lawn. Sparks flew, and before you know it, a fire broke out. Immediately, my mother rushed out of our apartment, clutching her phone to call 911 but instantly regretted it as she heard my wailing. She tried to return to get me, but great flames blocked both the front door and the back door. All she could do was watch the building burn, with me inside it .

My mother died that night. She had inhaled too much smoke from trying to save me, again. If she had only waited for a couple of more minutes, she wouldn't have risked her life.

Should I be glad of my mother’s death, or grieving? Her love is great, but it sometime causes harm. Her love caused bullying