That One Time My Uncle Tried to Murder Me by Allie Nagohe (16, New Hampshire)

When you’re seven, you have trouble writing your name in the box. Your hands are too cramped around the pencil and it scratches on the paper, flying out of your control. Worries are out of your comprehension, and you only live day to day.

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When I was seven, I lived with my aunt and uncle. You see, my parents already had to deal with my older and younger brother, and another boy was on the way. My mom decided it was too much to handle. I was the one to go, perhaps because I was starting school soon, or just because my mother had a personal vendetta against me. Both are equally likely. Anyways, I took a train to their house, a house I had never been to with people I had never met. I imagine I would be nervous, but I don’t think I even had a conscience at 5. I only have a few memories from kindergarten there, my teacher got mad at me for blowing my nose with a paper towel instead of a tissue, I cried when my paper chicken’s feather fell off, I had a crush on a boy in my class named Jaden but he married Anastasia instead. But one memory is alarmingly clear.

It all starts with a beeping smoke alarm, which I think is a pretty damn good start to a story. I was sleeping in my room, in my bed with the pink quilt and blue canopy with white felt clouds. When I woke up I only felt half-conscious, I still had that senseless layer of sleep blocking my already dazed seven-year-old brain. It took me a minute, but I figured out what was happening. It was the middle of the night and the smoke alarms were all beeping. Instinct kicked in. I leaped out of my bed, grabbing my lilac sweatshirt off the bedpost and throwing it on over my Rapunzel nightgown. Now what? The first thing that came into my head was something I had heard many times before. Stop, drop, and roll! I stopped for a moment, freezing in place, let my body go limp and dropped to the floor, and then rolled around for a couple seconds. When I stood back up the smoke alarms stopped beeping, and in the blink of an eye I was in Town Hall, shaking the mayor’s hand as the fire chief placed his hardhat on my head, nominating me for doing his job better than he ever could. I blinked again and I was back in my bedroom, the smoke alarms still beeping and my red hat gone. “Stop, drop, and roll'' didn't work, so it was time for Plan B. Plan B was to simply exit the house, which should be easy, right? Besides, it was probably nothing, my uncle probably just dropped a half-smoked cigarette somewhere and made a lot of smoke. I opened my door slowly, and instantly smelled smoke. I put my sweatshirt up over my nose and mouth, walking through the hallway blurred with smoke. It was dark upstairs, but there was a flickering light from the staircase getting brighter as I walked closer and closer. I stumbled towards the stairs, coughing. As I walk down the stairs, I can see it all. Sometimes it all seems like it was just a dream, one that seems to morph into your memories until you can’t tell which is which. Because in my head this part isn’t from my eyes, it’s in third person. I see myself in my purple sweatshirt and nightgown, paused on the staircase as the bright yellows reflect in my wide eyes. It was an indescribable sight, the light everywhere, the flames of bright yellow licking higher and higher. That part is all kind of a blur, walking down the stairs and out the front door, as simple as if I’m just going to catch the bus. In fact, I have no memory of walking through that door, but I must’ve. My therapist says that blocking out memories is a “trauma response”. But she also says that about everything. Always distracted? Trauma response! Think everyone hates you? Trauma response! Going insane? Trauma response! Sore throat? Probably also just a trauma response!

When I finally got out of the house, the air had never seemed clearer. It felt so clean and refreshing, entering my shaky lungs. But that wasn’t the first thing I noticed. The first thing I noticed was my aunt. She was there, standing on the front lawn, talking on the phone, tears streaming down her face, her eyes staring at the house. She had already gotten out, she was already safe. For some reason, in my mind she was still in the house, because she would’ve helped me first, right? I mean I’m not expecting some dramatic carrying me over-the-shoulder and rushing me out, praying the whole time that “my baby will be okay.” But maybe just like a little, “Hey, sorry to wake you but the house is kinda burning to the ground now and you might want to, I don’t know, get out, maybe?” I mean, I was 7. But regardless, it didn’t matter because we both got out anyway and everyone was fine, I was probably having a bit of a coughing fit and couldn’t really breathe or talk, but my aunt had called 911 so it would all work out. Now you might be asking at this point, “Wait, what about your uncle, Allie? Is he okay? Where is he?” Well, here’s the thing (and this might involve some math, I know I know, bear with me). My uncle was home about, let’s say, 30% of the time. And in that 30%, he was probably home at night about 5%. So 5% of 30 is... if my calculations are correct... (hang on let me google this) 1.5%. So there was a 1.5% chance that he was even home. And if by some miracle coincidence he was, I was not helping him and my aunt certainly was not either. Hell, it’s every man/seven year old for themselves here!

I didn’t know how it all happened then. In my mind it was always some sort of freak accident, an iron left on, a candle never put out, something out of everyone’s control. But over time, things connected together. The stereotypical out-of-control crazy uncle, who checked “all of the above” on the quiz on abusive antics, the fire that started out of nowhere in the dead of night. And the one missing puzzle piece was something my aunt said. Flashback to when we’re standing outside of the house, my aunt is crying, the house is burning to the ground, I can’t really breathe, yadda yadda yadda. In between talking on the phone, my aunt would murmur little mantras to herself. I barely noticed them, they didn’t seem to mean much. I can’t believe this, that crazy asshole, he’s gone too far, this can’t be real, the sayings go on. But it just makes so much sense. If you knew him, you’d believe it in an instant.

Nothing ever happened. It was always written as an accident, and frankly, that didn’t matter much to me. I never saw him again, and that was all I cared about. To me, this story is just another memory, it’s simply a moment from years ago that maybe wasn’t the best. But when I write everything out, I realize that this probably isn’t your average memory. But if you read this and think, “Allie, this sounds like a cry for help.” It’s not, I swear! Honestly, this is only just the beginning!