Ashes of Another Life Read Free

clippings cling to my face and I rub them away, blinking hard. When I open my eyes, they are standing there. Just standing there in a circle over me, looking down.”
    “Your family.”
    “Yes. Not all of them, but a dozen or so. They smell of burned flesh. It’s overwhelming, and I gag. I’ve had this dream enough times to recall the exact smell and remember how my eyes began to water at the stench. I want to cover my nose, but I don’t. I just stare up at them in fear.
    “Their blackened skin is split open, peeling away in chunks to expose bloody muscle tissue. Some of their eyes are melted shut; others don’t have eyes anymore, but the worst are the eyes that are perfectly preserved. They bulge from the sockets as if forever trapped in a moment of terror. I try to recognize their faces, but the moonlight is dim and their features have been stripped away like melted dolls.” Tara Jane paused when she noticed the guidance counselor struggling to maintain her composure. She blushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone into detail.”
    “No, please. I’d like to hear the whole thing, exactly as you dreamed it.”
    “Okay. Let’s see… They reach down and wrap their charred fingers around me and yank me into a standing position. My skin sizzles and blisters where they touch me, but the pain is nothing compared to my fear. I’m standing in front of my old house as it crackles with flames. Heatwaves cause my vision to dance as scorching-hot fingers are prodding me forward from behind, toward the open door.”
    “I see.” Ms. Martinez lowered her voice, as if she didn’t really want to ask the next question. “And then what happens?”
    “They push me and pull me, a sea of burned bodies coming at me from all sides, forcing me toward the open door of the burning house. When I first started having the nightmare, I would wake up before we reached it.”
    “And now?”
    “Lately, I get hurled past the threshold of the house before I wake up. Thrown into the fire while the rest of them shamble through the door to join me. For a minute, I can feel the pain. So much pain.”
    “Poor girl,” the woman whispered, and then straightened her posture, eyes suddenly alert as if she hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “I thought for sure the medicine they prescribed would help to ease your trauma…”
    “I don’t take it.”
    Ms. Martinez cocked her head and scrunched her dark, thin eyebrows. “Oh, sweetie, why? The medicine can soothe your anxiety and make it easier to talk about things, to work through these issues…”
    “I—” Tara Jane paused for a moment, considering the best way to explain her position to a Gentile. Even the word “Gentile” proved how different her mind worked than the average American and how alienated she’d been her whole life. Someone recently explained to Tara Jane that the word itself was rarely—if ever—used in conversation anymore. And yet, it was a regular part of her vocabulary growing up.
    “I don’t feel comfortable taking pills .”
    When the counselor’s only response was a blank stare, she continued. “Father hated pills. He often preached against them. I remember when his second wife, Betty, visited a doctor and got a prescription for anti-depressants. Father was angry when he found out, but he didn’t punish Betty. He said God would do the punishing for him. Six months later, Betty got ovarian cancer and couldn’t bear his children anymore. God frowns on those who turn to medicine over prayer; it signifies a weak constitution. Those are Father’s words, not mine, but part of me still believes it.”
    “Oh, sweetie. That was just a coincidence.”
    “Then there was the incident with mother. Father did punish her when he found out she’d been taking pills to keep from having babies.” Tara Jane felt her cheeks flush with blood. “I’d never seen Father so angry. Mother had defied one of the most important rules set down by the prophet. He punished her, and