Last week, one apartment in a building of over one hundred apartments burned, flames reaching every which way but mostly thick black smoke. I watched from the ground below, on the sidewalk in front of the building. I saw the fire emerge from the windows, dragon-like, orange tongue licking the air, fumes escaping, dark and blind, making the neighborhood smell foul. I heard the firetrucks come, walked away, and never saw the fire put out, knowing it would take hours.
That first time, I shed tears. The second time, I was reminded of something like stolen rage; the all-consuming fire of the one who must witness their pain manifest in another, rage becoming something one can no longer act upon, the rage that becomes dumb and stuck, like you said, but even farther, the fire that keeps mounting, against its' will, catching and catching, waiting for water.
The water comes too late, the air already toxic with the things never meant to be burned, things no longer. Still, it ends, leaving its scorch marks on the surface. Or if those go, there's still the smell that soaks into everything and never disappears. Boarded up windows, shattered glass, until something bright and new and hideous takes it place, leaving a sense of the place where those rare clairvoyants will walk and know something's wrong. We can only hope they try to fix it.
I don't know if anyone died. Would it make a difference whether one house was set on fire and the other was an accident? Which story would be more tragic? Or if one inhabitant was a brilliant scientist and the other a gun-wielding gang member? And I really don't know if there's a difference between the event of history and the smaller events that trivialize our feeble days.
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