Kitchen Fire

You know how people always say, “Stay calm in an emergency”? Yeah, that’s easier said than done. I learned that the hard way when my kitchen almost became my tomb. It was supposed to be a quiet night. I’d invited a few friends over for dinner—nothing fancy, just spaghetti and garlic bread. I don’t know why I thought I could multitask in the kitchen. I was trying to brown the meat, stir the sauce, butter the bread, and chat with my friends all at once. Big mistake. It started with the oil. I’d left a pan of it heating on the stove while I went to grab something from the pantry. Honestly, I don’t even remember what I was looking for—spices, maybe? Anyway, I got distracted by a joke someone made in the living room. By the time I turned back, there was this weird glow coming from the kitchen. The pan. The oil. It was on fire. Panic hit me like a slap to the face. I froze for a second, just staring at the flames licking up the sides of the pan. They were bigger than I expected, roaring like they had a life of their own. I grabbed the pan handle without thinking, and that was my second big mistake. The heat seared through the towel I’d wrapped around my hand, and I dropped the pan. It hit the floor, and suddenly the fire wasn’t just on the stove—it was everywhere. I screamed, and my friends came running. One of them yelled, “Get water!” but I remembered enough from some safety video years ago to know that was a death sentence. Water and grease fires don’t mix—they explode. My mind was racing, trying to remember what to do. Baking soda? A fire extinguisher? Did I even have a fire extinguisher? The smoke alarm started blaring, and the room filled with thick, black smoke. My eyes were watering, and it was getting hard to breathe. The fire was spreading fast, crawling up the cabinets and onto the counter. The curtains above the sink caught next, sending flaming bits of fabric floating down like deadly confetti. “Get out!” I shouted, coughing as the smoke clawed at my throat. “Everyone out!” But here’s the thing—they couldn’t. The fire had spread to the doorway, and the only other way out was through the garage, which was locked. One of my friends tried to grab the doorknob, but it was already too hot to touch. He pulled his hand back with a hiss of pain. We were trapped. My brain was screaming at me to think, think, think, but it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room—out of my body. I remembered seeing a fire blanket in one of the drawers. Or maybe it was under the sink? I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling through the thickening smoke, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to break through my chest. I found the blanket and threw it over the flames blocking the door. It smothered part of the fire, but not enough. My hands were shaking, and my vision was starting to blur. Someone was crying—I think it was me. One of my friends grabbed a chair and smashed it through the window above the sink. The glass shattered, and fresh air rushed in, but so did the fire. The oxygen fed the flames, and they roared higher, hotter, hungrier. I felt the heat on my back, like the fire was reaching for me. My lungs burned with every breath, and I could feel my strength fading. This was it, I thought. This was how it was going to end. But then, through the chaos, I heard sirens. Someone had called 911. Hope flickered in my chest, a tiny, fragile thing, but it was enough to keep me moving. I grabbed a dish towel, soaked it in water, and held it over my face. It wasn’t much, but it gave me a few more seconds to think. The firefighters arrived just in time. They broke down the garage door and pulled us out one by one. I remember the feel of their hands on my arms, strong and steady, dragging me into the cool night air. I collapsed on the grass, coughing and shaking, my skin blistered and my hair singed. But I was alive. We all were. The house didn’t make it, though. By the time the fire was out, there was almost nothing left. I stood there, wrapped in a scratchy blanket, watching the last embers die out, feeling a strange mix of relief and loss. My home was gone, but we’d escaped. Barely. I haven’t cooked since that night. Just the thought of turning on a stove makes my hands shake. I keep a fire extinguisher in every room now, and I double-check every lock, every exit, every window. People say it was an accident, that I couldn’t have known, but I can’t help feeling like I failed. Like I should’ve been smarter, faster, better prepared. Sometimes I still hear the crackling of the flames in my dreams. I wake up choking on phantom smoke, my heart racing like I’m still trapped. It’s been months, but the fear doesn’t go away. Maybe it never will.