The lie I tell everyone, the one I practice in the mirror until it's smooth as polished stone, is that I was a hero that night. It was a house fire, a classic tragedy. I was just passing by when I saw the flames licking at the second-story window. The lie is that I didn't hesitate. The lie is that I heard a child's cry, a desperate little sound that ripped through the roar of the fire, and I acted on pure instinct.
The story I tell is one of splintered doorframes, of choking smoke that burned my lungs, of wrapping my jacket around a small, trembling body and carrying her out to the waiting arms of a grateful mother. They gave me a commendation. The local news called me a "Good Samaritan." The mother, with tears in her eyes, called me an angel. I shook the fire chief's hand with a solemn, humble nod. It was the lie I had to tell. It was the only thing anyone wanted to hear.
Here is the honest part, the tainted truth.
I didn't hear a cry. I was driving by, and I saw the fire. And I parked my car. And I watched. For a good five minutes, I just stood there in the cool night air and watched the house devour itself. And I felt nothing. No urgency. No fear. No pity. Just a distant, cold curiosity. It was beautiful, in a way. The violent orange of it against the black sky, the way the glass shattered and rained down like diamonds. It was the most alive thing I had ever seen.
I only went in because I saw other people gathering. I saw phones coming out, pointing at the house. And I knew, with a sudden, sickening clarity, that if I didn't act, I would be remembered as the monster who just stood there and watched. My reputation, my carefully constructed facade of being a decent man, was about to burn down with that house.
So I ran. Not to save a life, but to save my own. The only tears I shed that night were for myself, in the shower later, scrubbing the soot from my skin and trying to wash away the profound emptiness of knowing that the only reason a little girl is alive today is because I am a selfish coward terrified of being found out. They call me a hero, and I let them. I let them, because the truth—that I would have watched her burn to save myself the trouble of a lie—is a monster I can't let anyone see.
The story I tell is one of splintered doorframes, of choking smoke that burned my lungs, of wrapping my jacket around a small, trembling body and carrying her out to the waiting arms of a grateful mother. They gave me a commendation. The local news called me a "Good Samaritan." The mother, with tears in her eyes, called me an angel. I shook the fire chief's hand with a solemn, humble nod. It was the lie I had to tell. It was the only thing anyone wanted to hear.
Here is the honest part, the tainted truth.
I didn't hear a cry. I was driving by, and I saw the fire. And I parked my car. And I watched. For a good five minutes, I just stood there in the cool night air and watched the house devour itself. And I felt nothing. No urgency. No fear. No pity. Just a distant, cold curiosity. It was beautiful, in a way. The violent orange of it against the black sky, the way the glass shattered and rained down like diamonds. It was the most alive thing I had ever seen.
I only went in because I saw other people gathering. I saw phones coming out, pointing at the house. And I knew, with a sudden, sickening clarity, that if I didn't act, I would be remembered as the monster who just stood there and watched. My reputation, my carefully constructed facade of being a decent man, was about to burn down with that house.
So I ran. Not to save a life, but to save my own. The only tears I shed that night were for myself, in the shower later, scrubbing the soot from my skin and trying to wash away the profound emptiness of knowing that the only reason a little girl is alive today is because I am a selfish coward terrified of being found out. They call me a hero, and I let them. I let them, because the truth—that I would have watched her burn to save myself the trouble of a lie—is a monster I can't let anyone see.
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