Ethan Smith had the same dream again.
Same damn one.
He was standing in this place, if you could even call it that. Fire everywhere. Like the sky just cracked open and dumped the freakin sun right on top of him.
In the center of it all, there was something. A throne, perhaps? Or maybe it was nothing but the fire itself.
Ethan never lasted long. He always woke up before he could see it proper. Heart hammering, sheets drenched, his nose swearin it smelled smoke even though the room was clean. As a kid he used to cry about it. Later he just sat there in the dark, glass of water in hand, muttering, "yep… still broken, buddy."
Therapists? Seen a dozen. Docs? Too many. Sleep studies, MRIs, pills that made him feel like a zombie. All useless.
Nobody knew shit.
One guy scribbled "night terrors" on a piece of paper and charged him four hundred bucks. Another said "maybe trauma" even though Ethan didn't even know what trauma they were talkin about. Stress? Sure, guess being alive was stressful.
Didn't matter. The fire always came back.
By sixteen he gave up askin. When friends teased him for bein gloomy, he'd shrug and say, "maybe I'm seein the future, huh? Maybe I'll burn to death one day."
They'd laugh. He'd laugh too. But part of him never really thought it was a joke.
Writing was supposed to save him.
Yeah, supposed to.
He started banging on this old-ass keyboard in high school, scribbling stuff in the margins of math homework. It felt good at first. He could make the rules, create people who actually listened. Maybe, just maybe, make a world where fire didn't win.
But somehow, it always snuck in.
Every damn story it was same pattern. People trying, struggling, fighting to be better… then boom. Burned alive, stabbed in the back, face down in a gutter. He didn't plan it that way, his hands just wrote it was as if he was possessed he could not stop himself. He could not create a happy ending.
By college he had a small blog. A few readers, some even called themselves "fans." He thought maybe, just maybe, he was building something. He self-published a little ebook.
Then the reviews started.
And they were brutal.
Brutal.
"Man, this dude can write, but why's it gotta be so depressing? Every time I like a character then boom they die."
"This is just cruel. Bro you good??"
"I get it, life sucks, but do you gotta rub it in for 900 freakin pages?"
"Dude kills EVERY character we get attached to. What's the point?!"
"Stop makin us love your people if you're just gonna slaughter them. That's sick asshole."
"This ain't even edgy. It's just exhausting."
Some diehards fans argued in the comments that maybe there was hidden genius to it. Most just called him a sadist and bounced.
He'd stare at those one-stars like somebody punched a hole straight through his chest. Readers didn't want ash. They wanted light. Hope. Heroes.
And Ethan? He only ever gave them fire.
One comment stuck the hardest. Just a single word:
"Cruel."
Cruel.
He wasn't tryin to be. He jus couldn't stop the fire from leaking out. He tried writing happy stories but he just couldn't
Now he was twenty-nine. Crappy one-bedroom, city that reeked of piss in summer and diesel in winter. Wallpaper peeling, neighbors screaming, fridge buzzing louder than an airplane engine.
On his desk? Laptop screen. Blank page. Cursor blinking at him.
Blink. Blink.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he muttered. "You win, asshole."
He hadn't shaved in days. Hoodie stank of cigarettes and cheap coffee. Six hours till work till his night shift at a convenience store where drunk kids puked on the counter and old ladies tried to smuggle cat food. Rent late again. Landlord sending those "friendly reminders".
That's when the heat started.
Not the radiator. Him. His chest. Like someone put a lighter under his ribs. He yanked his hoodie, sweating buckets.
"Jesus after having that dream for my entire ficking life you would think that I would tolerate the heat but no I freaking hate it."
He staggered to the window, shoved it open. Cold air slapped him, but it didn't matter. The heat wasn't outside. It was inside.
For a moment, staring at the glass, he swore his reflection wasn't his. Eyes too bright. Gold flicker where his pupils should've been. He blinked and it was gone. Just bloodshot brown eyes again.
"Sleep. Need sleep or whiskey or bye I just need cigarette ."
He slammed the window shut, flopped on the couch, lit a smoke. Familiar scratch in his lungs. He stared at the ceiling cracks, thinking about that damn dream again. Fire always chasing him.
Maybe, just maybe, he really was seeing his own ending.
"Is it really my fate to burn to death?" He muttered around the cigarette. "Figures."
He laughed, but it broke in the middle. Sounded too close to a sob.
Next thing he knew, the smoke alarm was howling.
At first he thought it was that dream again. Fire and , heat. But then his eyes snapped open. Whole damn wall was glowing orange.
Outlet by the desk sparking like a dragon's mouth. Flames racing up the wallpaper. Curtains lit in seconds.
"ShitShitshitshit!"
Ethan stumbled up, choking. Laptop slid off the desk, screen cracking. He lunged for the door but he burned his palm raw. He screamed and yanked his hand back.
Couch caught fire. Books too. Smoke thick as tar, clogging his throat.
He dropped to his knees, hacking, chest tearing itself apart. Not just smoke but heat aswell. That same cursed heat, splitting him open from the inside out.
Crawling now, dragging himself toward the window. Hands slipping. Glass black with soot. Couldn't breathe. Lungs screaming. Eyes stinging.
And through the roar of it all, he thought about the nights. The dreams. The stupid jokes he'd told friends. Maybe I'll die in a fire someday.
Guess the joke was on him.
He let out a broken little laugh. Bitter. Small.
"Fucking called it hehe"
And then the fire swallowed him whole.
Ethan Smith died with flames in his lungs. Just like he always knew he would.