My Hand, My Song, My Freedom

The smell hit me first, thick, choking smoke, then Lila' s terrified scream ripped through the festival noise.

Jax, my fiancé, was a blur beside me, his face tight with a desperate need to save her.

He started towards The Swamp Shack, towards the hungry flames devouring the old wooden walls.

My body wanted to lunge, to grab his arm, to scream, "No, Jax, don't!"

But this time, I didn't.

Because I remembered.

I remembered the searing pain as burning wood crashed down, crushing my left hand, destroying my music, obliterating my future, in another life.

I remembered Jax' s face, twisted not with concern for me, but with fury, after Lila was dead and my hand a useless, mangled thing.

"It's your fault, Scarlett! You should have saved her, not me!" his words, a brand on my soul.

His family' s money, a weapon that bled me dry, blackballing me from every gig, every chance I had.

I remembered the suffocating silence of his plantation, the cold dismissal in his eyes every day of our sham marriage.

Oh God, and the smokehouse.

Locked in, the Louisiana summer sun beating down, the air so thick I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, utterly alone.

I gasped, the memory so real I could taste the ash and the terror.

Now, in this life, Jax was yelling Lila' s name again, ready to play the hero, just like before.

But this time the script was mine.

This time, I stepped aside.

I just watched him charge into the inferno, pure indifference a cold comfort.

My hand, my precious hand, was safe.

My music was still mine.

The smell hit me first, thick, choking smoke, then Lila' s scream ripped through the noise of the crowd and the band.

Jax, my Jax, was a blur beside me, his face tight.

"Lila! I gotta get her!"

He started towards The Swamp Shack, towards the flames already licking up the old wooden walls.

My body wanted to lunge, to grab his arm, to scream, "No, Jax, don't!"

Because I remembered.

The searing pain as burning wood crashed down, crushing my left hand, my music, my life.

I remembered Jax' s face, twisted not with concern for me, but with fury, later, when Lila was dead and my hand was a useless, mangled thing.

"It's your fault, Scarlett! You should have saved her, not me!"

His words, a brand on my soul.

His family' s money, a weapon that bled me dry, blackballing me from every gig, every chance.

The suffocating silence of his plantation, the cold dismissal in his eyes every day of our sham marriage.

And the smokehouse. Oh God, the smokehouse.

Locked in, the Louisiana summer sun beating down, the air growing hotter, thicker, until I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't...

I gasped, the memory so real I could taste the ash.

This time, Jax was yelling Lila' s name, ready to be the hero.

This time, I stepped aside.

I just watched him charge into the inferno.

My hand, my precious hand, was safe. My music was still mine.

A roar, then a sickening crunch as part of the porch roof gave way right where Jax had plunged in.

Seconds later, he stumbled out, dragging a screaming, smoking Lila.

He collapsed, and she lay beside him, her pageant dress in tatters, her perfect skin blistered.

Then the sirens, the shouting, the blur of the small rural hospital.

I sat on a cold plastic chair, watching.

Jax' s parents, Jackson Beaumont Jr. and his wife, rushed in, faces pale.

A doctor, his expression grim, spoke to them in low tones.

"...severe burns... his left leg... amputation is unavoidable... the right one, extensive damage... permanent disability..."

Mrs. Beaumont crumpled, a small, broken sound escaping her.

Mr. Beaumont, his face like stone, turned his fury on me.

"You! You were with him! Why didn't you stop him? You just let him run in there?"

His voice was a low growl, full of menace.

I met his gaze, my own cool, steady.

"I tried, Mr. Beaumont. He wouldn't listen. He was... obsessed with saving Lila. I'm not his keeper."

I let a beat pass.

"He made his choice."

Lila woke up screaming, not from pain, but from what she saw in the small, cracked mirror a nurse reluctantly handed her.

Her face, or what was left of it, was a mess of raw burns and swelling.

"My face! My career! It's ruined! Ruined!"

Hank and Mary-Lou, my dear parents, rushed to her side, cooing and fretting.

Then Mary-Lou' s eyes, sharp and accusing, found me.

"This is your fault, Scarlett! You were always jealous of her! She just won that pageant preliminary, the one you bombed at with that awful song! You started that fire, didn't you?"

Hank nodded, his face a mask of righteous anger.

"She' s right! You couldn' t stand her success!"

I almost smiled. The predictability was comforting.

"Jealousy? Interesting theory," I said, my voice even.

"You know, the liquor store across from The Swamp Shack has security cameras. They weren't damaged. I wonder what they might show."

I paused, letting them absorb that.

"Lila was awfully upset I kept my vintage Gibson in the back room. Maybe she was seen near that faulty wiring with something... flammable? Trying to make sure my guitar didn't survive, perhaps?"

Lila' s wails hitched. Her eyes, wide and terrified, darted to mine.

Panic. Pure, unadulterated panic.

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a sympathetic murmur.

"And Mom, Dad... you should know about Jax. The doctors are very clear. He' ll lose one leg. The other... he might never walk properly again. It's permanent."

Lila' s expression, visible even through the ruin of her face, shifted.

The fear was still there, but something new bloomed: revulsion.

Pure, undisguised disgust at the thought of a disabled Jax Beaumont III.

My beautiful, perfect sister.