*Burning Fear (Fahrenheit 451)*

Hello.

This assignment was to rewrite a scene from the book that was frightening from the prospective of one of the characters in the scene. My last post was describing this and choosing words that I liked from it. Now, here is the scene, the way I (and the poor woman) see it:

A knock came fast and hard at the door. Whoever was on the other side banged away at the fragile piece of wood, how flimsy it seemed under their fist! Doors had always been a safety, something to keep out the talking walls, talking people, talking world. Everything talked and they all talked and talked about nothing.

Slowly she walked to the door, only one person, or group of people, rather, could be on the other side. Only one person would come to see her. Only one person would care enough to visit her.

She stood for a moment, filled with the noisy sound of knocking and the sound of her own racing heart and thoughts. It seemed to take an infinite amount of time to reach the knob, to turn it. She stretched out her hand, wondering, childishly, if she would be able to reach, it seemed like such a very long way.

As soon as the door was open things moved very quickly. A man was revealed on the porch, a man with his fist still raised in the attitude of knocking. The man grabbed her arms, holding her like a limp doll and shaking her, shaking and shaking.

She didn’t feel able to move, the coming and going of her breath seemed to be the only movement through her whole body, she couldn’t even hear her own heart beat. Her eyes were fixed on the wall, a single spot of color there. Had it always been there? She wondered, it looked like a bloody fingerprint, just a bit below her eye level. She watched it while they shook her. She knew that she was weaving drunkenly across the porch, swaying in a sort of fear-induced trance.

There were words, words she had told herself that she would say if they came. When they came. No one escaped, no one was spared their rigorous purging. The words, the words, they were, they were…

“Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.” Yes, those were the words, she wasn’t sure from what well she had dug them. She wasn’t sure how she had managed to remember anything, the rest of her mind seemed so blank. But perhaps it was like the wall in her entrance hall, blank with just enough distinction to give her the courage to perform her final act.

The man, the tall one, the leader was screaming at her, asking her where the books were. He wanted her books, he wanted to burn them. She swayed a bit and fixed her eyes on a point just past his broad shoulder. She focused on that stretch of wall behind him, focused on it to give her courage. She had never been more afraid…or more purposeful.

His hand came down across her face. The slap stung painfully and tears came to her eyes, they hid there, waiting for the moment to spill over. “Where are they?” he asked, digging his fingers into her shoulder.

More words, there were more words that she needed. Why couldn’t she find them? She knew ever so many words, she just need a few, just a simple few. “You know—” she started but no sound seemed to be issuing from her mouth. She tried to gather her courage, to wrap it about her like a cloak, a cloak of protection. “You know where they are or you wouldn’t be here.” Her voice was stronger now, more forceful and defiant sounding.

A card, a white one with stark black text was thrust under her nose. It looked so ugly to her. It was nothing at all like the beautiful text from her books. It was far too harsh, too hideously frightening. She didn’t even read it.

“That would be Mrs. Blake, my neighbor.” She wondered where she found the words with which to lie. They flew so smoothly to her mouth, the lie was so easy.

The men were already off, screaming triumphant cries at the overpowering of one woman. They had no idea what they were doing. They were the mindless slaves of their twisted sense of justice. Except for the leader. He knew. He saw the lies that were being fed to the people. He was the worst kind of scum, because he knew the deceit and did nothing. Filth.

They rushed up her stairs and started to hack away at her attic door, banging it down. She stood there, motionless for a moment. Fear was paralyzing, it rooted her feet to the ground, froze her hands.

No, no, she thought. There was more, more she had to do. Quickly, silently, she rushed to the kitchen. Matches, she needed matches. They were hidden; no one used matches any more. She most likely had the only store left in the whole city. Just one, just one would do. She looked at the tiny thing, sitting in the palm of her hand. It was so small. So pitiful, it was just a small stick, just a red head, angry looking.

She moved back to the hallway and stood there, listening in silence to the raging men upstairs, they were so loud and she knew it was to cover her own silence. She felt a small triumph in their unrest. Her silence spoke far louder than their words.

The came tumbling back down the stairs, dragging their horrible kerosene bottles. She hated the stench, it was so cloying. Books were sprayed with the stuff; it was a physical blow to see them drenched, the dye from their covers seeping over the floor, the gilt of their titles peeling off with the stinking liquid.

One of them kneeled by her, he was trying to get her to move, to pull her out of the house. She didn’t want to move, she didn’t want to leave, she had to finish it, she had to.

No, she told him, no. He was persistent. He pulled on her arm, tried to coax her. No, she said again and again. Finally, she revealed the tiny, powerful kitchen match. The man, the kind one, stepped back and the boss edged to the door in a way that she knew was nervous, though he tried to hide it.

How powerful the kitchen match felt. She could have been holding a gun and commanded no more respect. She touched the covers of the books around her, caressing them.

Goodbye, she thought, and lit the match. Goodbye.