My closest friend
It was 1 AM, and my wife woke me up, smelling something burning. We live on the 15th floor of a 20-floor building, and no one had tested the fire alarms in years. Opening the door, I was instantly surrounded by thick, black smoke. I could hear the sound of lightbulbs exploding as the apartment next to us was on fire. With no response from the building’s guard and no idea how far the fire had spread, I had to make a quick decision. Should we stay and risk getting trapped, or attempt to escape through the smoke-filled building? I grabbed some wet bedsheets, wrapped my wife and three-year-old son, and we ran.
The heat was unbearable, and the smoke choked us as we ran toward the stairwell. Burning embers flew in our direction due to the wind on our floor, turning that five-meter run into a living nightmare. I held up my wet sheet like a shield, trying to give my family even a sliver of protection. My wife carried our son as we dashed through what felt like hell. We made it to the stairwell, where I met another man trying to find a fire extinguisher, but he didn’t know whether the fire was above or below us. With no choice, I trusted my instincts and urged my family to run down the stairs as fast as possible.
Somehow, we descended 15 flights of stairs in what felt like mere seconds. Our legs were swollen for a week after, but we made it out alive. The fire brigade arrived just before the flames reached our apartment. Though our door was warped and blackened, our belongings were saved. Even now, the smell of something burning sends a wave of panic through us—proof that terror leaves a lasting mark.
