Whispered Prayers

by Alex Grayson

After checking on the chicken on the stove, I make quick work of the buttons of my shirt as I walk down the hallway to my bedroom. This cabin may be small to some people, but it’s perfect for me. Once upon a time, I had plans to build a big house and fill it with laughter, but not any longer. That ship has sailed, crashed, burned, then sunk. I toss my shirt on the floor in front of my dresser, then take off my pants, leaving them in the same pile. In the bathroom, I turn on the shower to let it warm up. Turning away, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Normally I try to stay away from mirrors. Not because the scars are hideous and I hate looking at them, but because of the memories that come with seeing them. I don’t turn away this time. I stand there and force myself to look at them, and the memories immediately assault me. A woman’s laughter and soft smiles. The screech of tires. High-pitched screams of fear. Deep screams of pain. Innocent wails, then silence. My own pain gripping me. My vision fading to black as my life dies before me. I look at the snarled and twisted skin on my arm and side. I was awake when the heat of the flames hit me. I was conscious when my flesh started to melt. But that’s not what I remember when I see my scars. What I remember is what I almost had. I remember not being strong enough to save them. I remember the screams and the broken pleas. I grip the sink in front of me and hunch over, dropping my head, no longer able to look at mys...