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Ever since the fire happened, March hasn't been sleeping well. His first restless night came immediately after he was told his wife was dead and his home was gone. Instead of being in the comfort of his home with his wife at his side, he was lying in a dingy motel he had found for him and Holly with his daughter was asleep at his side.
Long after Holly had calmed down and drifted off, March’s eyes would still be wide open as he simply thought about what had happened. It felt like an eternity, but eventually, his eyes would slip, and he would finally fall into a restless, haunting sleep.
He’d eventually wake up with a start, trying not to wake Holly as he quietly made sure she was still breathing. After that night, though, the old home would live in his forever in the back of his mind.
Again and again, he found himself back there. He thought maybe it would stop with time. After enough time, maybe his mind would stop replaying that night over and over to him.
But the dreams would never let up. Some nights would simply show him a quicker version of the night. Other nights, his mind would twist the details.
But no matter what happened, it would always bring him straight to the situation he feared the most–the exact moment the smoke had breached the comfort of their home, the moment his wife yelled to him to find Holly as heat began to fill the home.
The scene would remain unchanged. The only thing that differentiated the dream from that night was that March already knew what he’d lost.
Even as he drags his daughter out of the burning house, holding her like she was the last thing he had left in this broken world, he knows she is all he has left. He knows this even as he desperately tries to run back into the house, his limbs heavy and weak as he cries out for his wife.
He knows there's no changing the past. Every time he fell asleep, he’d think to himself, maybe now my mind will let him win. Maybe it would let him have one good moment with her. And each and every time the dream played out, he’d think, maybe this time I’ll be able to save her.
But it would always be too late. The flames would always feast on his body, the feeling of flesh burning as the smoke filled his lungs. He remembers thinking to himself that night that this was the only time he was glad he couldn’t smell, even if it was to blame for the fire.
He would try to push through the fires and find his wife, but no matter how hard he tried, he’d always be stopped. There would be hands on him, pulling him out of the home while his wife remained inside, the flames swallowing around the last thing he had left of her as the paramedics held him down.
And after that, he would wake up. He’d be left alone in the dark of his room, because of course his body would never let him get a full night’s sleep. His body would cry out and ache afterwards. But as odd as it seems, the ache left behind was somewhat grounding to March. He tried not to think about it much, but then again, the pain was easier for him to process compared to the grief he could feel pilling in his chest.
March often would just lie there for a while, waiting for the shakiness in his body to leave. Some nights he’d just give up instead, reaching for a cigarette and sitting in the bath until the sunrise.
On unlucky days, his mind would replay the aftermath for him. He would remember the way he held onto Holly, tears escaping both of their faces as he clutched the one person left he had to call family.
But no matter what, it all remained the same routine. He “wakes up” to the house already burning, or with the knowledge it's about to begin. He would get a glimpse of the face he so dearly hangs onto, her face like an angel as she looked at him with a fondness he so desperately seeks now.
And just when he thought he might have her back, she was gone.
He felt like whenever he closed his eyes, he was met with the dream. No one knows how much he’s haunted by it, and each and every time, he’s left to confront it alone.
Most times, though, he doesn’t feel a thing, surprisingly enough. It’s inconsistent. It’s strange how the exact scenario could be felt in his mind in so many different ways. Some days, March could swear he could feel the flames piling up, the burn of scars reopening across his skin, as his body went still, powerless to stop it.
Occasionally if he concentrates hard enough, the burn of alcohol pouring down his throat could act as the flames, giving him the feeling he so desperately craves.
But at the end of the day, there's always something there that aches. Always a bruise or cut that fills the void in his heart. Healy always scolded him for being so careless during jobs. March would argue that naturally letting his body get hurt was probably much smarter than purposely hurting himself on his own time. Of course, though, he never said it out loud. But the thought still lingered in March’s head.
Tonight, though, the dream changed. And not just the subtle changes that March is used to. This time, he finally gets the dream that has lingered in his mind ever since the night of the fire.
He wakes up to the home already in flames, the sound of crackling ringing in his ears as sweat pours down his brow. The hallway he finds himself in is already filled with smoke, the family photos that once decorated the walls are hidden behind flames as they eat his home like hounds.
Most noticeably, he’s alone. His wife isn’t there, yelling for him to find Holly. Holly’s cries for her parents are absent, and there’s no one for March to cling onto at the moment.
He knows, though, that even if he can’t hear them, they’re here. They were always here, even if they were hidden behind flames, waiting for him to find them. No matter what happened in his dreams, he always had to find them first. Holly would always be waiting for him, and his wife would always be somewhere behind her, always just a few steps too far from him, urging him to prioritize Holly.
Every day, he’s haunted by how he left his wife alone. How he carried Holly out of the burning building, leaving his wife to fend for herself. He had tried to go back, after making sure Holly was safe. He’ll never forgive himself for not even trying to fight back when the authorities dragged him away from the house as he tried to re-enter, telling him she’s already a lost cause. They hadn’t worded it like that, but that’s all March could hear.
He didn’t even notice the tears running down his face as he ran down to Holly’s door, already screaming her name. It’s different though this time.
It takes him a bit, but eventually his limbs are working properly and he pushes open the door with his shoulder. This time, instead of typically finding Holly, he finds both her and his wife.
Holly clings to her side, head buried in her chest as she looks up at him. March’s heart falters as she meets his gaze. For a moment, the fire is gone, and it’s just him and her.
Holly interrupts the moment, though, turning to look at him, tears staining her face. March’s eyes widen, sorrow filling his face as he sees Holly so small, so helpless in her mother’s arms.
March runs up to her, crouching down to join their embrace. For a moment, his hands linger against his wife’s side, and it feels like a shock cuts through his hands. His hand slowly retreats, focusing only on Holly.
“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice shaking in a way he can barely recognize. “Your dad’s here.”
The words hurt in his throat. Guilt fills his mouth as he tries to comfort his daughter. He can’t remember the last time he’d spoken to her like that. He shakily removes his hand from her shoulder.
He takes a deep breath as he steps backwards. March stares at her for a moment more, before looking back up at his wife. She hadn’t said a word, but March felt like it was for the best. Her face is already a blur in his mind, but the lack of memory for her voice haunts him far more.
She doesn't need to say anything for March to know what she’s thinking, though. The look she gives him is one he knows too well. It’s the same look she’d give him when he came home late, when he tries to hide a bad injury he didn’t want her to see. He used to hate whenever he got hurt. Holly would always worry too much, but his wife would always just look at him with a mix of both fondness and pity as she helped patch him up.
Now, it’s different, though. Now, Holly showed no emotion when he came home injured. It’s just part of their routine. She had simply learned that this was who her father had become—a clumsy drunk who prioritized his job over anything, even if that means coming home with blood dripping down his suit. Only then did he wish he hadn’t normalized the behavior. Recently, he’d been trying to drink less because of her. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he’d stop letting himself get hurt.
His gaze travels down to the floor. He can’t bear to meet her eyes. He can’t let himself see how her eyes move, how her body breathes. His mind is consumed by guilt every time he sees his wife still alive.
How each time he looks at her, she’s full of life despite being dead. Despite knowing that, somehow, it should have been him.
Ever since the night of the fire, March had been trying to convince himself that there was nothing he could have done. The fire was unforgiving, no matter what he tried, nothing would have stopped the flames.
But still, it could have been prevented. He ignored his wife and daughter as they spoke their concerns over a strange smell in the house. He thought he could wait longer to get it sorted, he didn’t think it was a big issue.
Maybe if he had actually listened to them none of this would have happened. Maybe Holly would still have her mother. Maybe she would actually have a parent who wouldn’t mess everything up. Maybe he would still have a wife to come home to.
But instead, she died in the home that should have kept her safe, and March had walked out of it alive.
He had saved his daughter as well. Everyone had told him that was what mattered. He was told that he had done the right thing, that his wife would have wanted Holly to be safe.
And yeah, he agrees. In every life, he would want Holly to be safe. March wasn’t sure what he would do if Holly had died as well.
But none of that changed the fact that he was still alive, when he knew it should have been his wife.
He met his wife’s gaze as he took in every detail in her distorted face. If she had survived, then he would be able to see it clearly. He wouldn't have to dig up the boxes in the spare room where he kept all his wife’s items. He wouldn’t have to search for the photo album she had spent hours filling with their best memories.
But this time, he had both of them in front of him. He didn’t have to choose between her or Holly. Maybe his mind is being kind to him for once. He takes a step back from his family. He looks at his wife, tracing over her face with his eyes for the last time.
He watches as his love slowly stands up, eyes locked on Holly as she lifts their daughter up into her arms. And then, in a heartbeat, the two are gone.
Suddenly the flames are back in his mind, and he’s reminded of the home actively tearing the place apart. Holly and his wife were like a shield, in some way. When they were here, March would forget the fire that was still burning around him.
He glances back at the door to Holly’s room, now open again. He slowly lets himself out of the room, shutting the door behind him softly.
March’s mind feels quiet for once. He knows Holly and his wife are safe together now. He knows they made it out. He hadn’t seen them leave himself, but he knew they had.
He moves slowly now. He makes his way down the hallway, letting the heat surround him now that he knows his family is safe. For the first time since the fire had taken everything, March was no longer afraid of it.
He reaches the end of the hallway, and for a while, he just stands there. He watches as the flames move through the house. When they spot him, he lets the heat press against him. He rests his back against the wall, slowly lowering himself to the ground.
The ground is warm as he sits down, the flames curling around his legs like a dog as smoke pours around him, obscuring his vision. He knows it should hurt, but instead, it brings a wave of peace to his mind.
It’s comforting, in some strange sense. He closes his eyes, leaning his head back as the silence of the flames fills his head. For once, there's nothing he needs to do. Everything is playing out how he wished it had. His family is safe, and there are no longer arms dragging him away from the wreckage.
The flames crawl closer to him, and suddenly they are swallowing him whole. Smoke thickens around him, turning the room into a distant blur in his mind.
A small smile creeps on his lips. He should be afraid. He should want his family, but he knows that this is for the best.
When the fire finally consumes the entire room, March doesn't move. He simply sits there, letting it take over.
For the first time, March finally got what he wanted. His mind had finally surrendered, and let him live through what he had ached for. The routine had been broken.
His body goes still as they burn through the last of him. His eyes remain closed, the control he once had over his body left him as the fire finally carried him away from the pain he had carried for years.
It was now only the fire and March, and the fire was finally giving him what he had dreamed of. The last memory that plays in his mind is the quiet moment of his wife holding Holly, the two of them quietly saving each other, safe together at last. And even if it wasn’t true, March let himself believe that, if only for a moment.
His mind then goes dark, and for the first time in years, March sleeps without dreaming.