Unbreakable - A Beautiful Lie · (Roswell Fanfiction) · √

TWENTY-TWO

"Lizzie? Lizzie?" The sentence continued from next door, but I couldn't make the rest of the sentence out, only the inflection that meant that she had asked me a question.

Being in my room felt like the most natural thing in the world. But as I rose from my reading position on the bed, an ominous feeling tightly gripped around my heart. I froze and looked around my room. I scanned my bookshelves with my collection of classic novels, took in the collection of photos of Alex, Maria and I attached to the mirror above the dresser. My eyes moved past the armchair where I used to curl up and read - more so when I had been younger - and brushed over the queen-sized bed.

I loved this room. I really did.

I took a deep breath in attempt to break apart the heavy lump in my chest and pulled the door, that was already ajar, opened.

In the blink of an eye, I had transported myself to the living room and found myself standing behind my mom.

I froze. She was ironing. But there was a burning smell surrounding her and the spot where the iron repeatedly moved over my dad's blue shirt had turned black.

"Mom, the shir-" I started, but my mom turned around with such a glorious and bright smile that the warning died on my lips.

Mommy.

I felt like crying as she looked at me lovingly. "There you are. Could you bring me the next load of clothing from the dryer?"

I forced to look away from her blissful expression, to the smoke that was coming from the iron. She had just left it there; the heat of the iron unrestricted burning into the material of the fabric.

"Mom!" I cried, the fear rushing the word out.

She followed my gaze to the iron just as yellow flames sprouted from the blackened shirt. With a surprised yelp, she took a step back.

Scared to death, I grabbed her arm while my eyes were fixed on the small fire. "Mom, get away from there."

But I couldn't move her from the spot. Instead my mom looked at the iron and whispered, "No. I'm not done yet. I'm not done."

I tugged on her arm, yelling desperately, "It doesn't matter, Mommy. We need to put it out."

My mom failed to acknowledge me. She turned her head towards the back of the room, towards the door leading downstairs, but I couldn't see what she saw as she repeated - like she was talking to someone standing there - "I'm not done. I'm not done."

My heart was racing as I watched the flames catch a hold of my mom's sleeve and I screamed myself into wakefulness.

"Mommy," I whimpered, tears tumbling down my cheeks with abandon, as I met the darkness of the small room in the rented apartment.

This was not my room. My room was gone. Burnt to ashes.

And Mom was dead.

The hole in my chest - where my intact heart used to be - was aching terribly, making me move into a fetal position in the bed in a desperate attempt to control the sobs that were turning more noisy and violent by the second. I curled my arms tightly around my middle, rocking my upper body back and forth, hoping that the gentle movement would bring me some comfort.

I wanted the pain to stop. I felt it explode out through my arms, through my fingers, down my legs, and I tightened my grip around my middle, burrowing my arms into my waist. Consequently, I pressed my arms further into that poorly healed wound, coaxing the physical pain forward.

As the sobs threatened to shatter me, and my head filled with memories of my mom, I felt him behind my back. My sobbing froze in startled surprise and my rocking stilled in frightened anticipation as his arms curled around my middle, brushing down along my own arms before I felt his fingers ease my arms away from my waist only to free up my hands so that they could be grasped by his.