Chapter Text
Memory is a funny thing.
Most people forget much of their daily life, in fact - they simply don't have the need to remember such mundane activities, and so they are not stored in long-term memory. Even fond memories, especially those from early childhood, tend to eventually fade away. As people age, their ability to recall certain memories may decay, until they can remember only a shade of what was once a vibrant and joyful experience. People forget all kinds of things they once cared about - names, faces, birthdays, anniversaries.
But it's hard to forget something horrible. No.... you're more likely to remember every detail with such vivid clarity as though it had happened the day before. Keith is no exception.
----
He was eight years old, going on nine. Following the fire, he had been taken from his home - probably reduced to no more than ashes by now - to the police station. He remembered the sensation of a blanket being wrapped around him, a gentle murmur in his ear and pat on his back, but he didn't have energy to respond to more stimuli. He'd already exhausted his day's limit. Blazing hot flames, the phantom glow of them burned against the inside of his eyelids; harsh soot on his face parted by tight, dry tear tracks; bruises, scrapes, and burns that had been treated and bandaged; screams drowned out by the roar of the fire (His own? His father's? He wasn't sure...maybe both). The sensations overwhelmed him as he sat in a motionless stupor while people whom he didn't know filled out paperwork and quietly discussed what to do with him.
His first week at the group home didn't register with Keith. He was still shell shocked, and didn't react to anything around him except to wander aimlessly from bed to cafeteria, from there to the bathroom, and back to the bed, disregarding the concerned glances and questions from caretakers. Even when children nudged his shoulder in passing, snickering beneath their hands, he didn't react. They soon grew bored and moved on to less catatonic victims. At some point, he was given new clothes to wear. The fabric was itchy and a few sizes too big, but he would just mindlessly scratch and fidget with the clothes, not paying them much mind. The discomfort of his clothes, the bustle of the children around him, and the weary faces of the caretakers - it was all just static in the background, and Keith was floating above it all. He didn't want to feel anything anymore.
He barely even existed for that first week.
One night in his second week there, he was awoken by a child crying softly in the bed below his bunk. He didn't know who they were because they had just arrived that morning, not that it would make a difference. Keith didn't talk to anyone.
Crying wasn't out of place, especially for newcomers to the home, so Keith just rolled over and tried to fall back asleep. But the whimpering was persistent, and it stood out in the otherwise silent room. There was no static to drown it out. Keith just lied there and let the child's crying wash over him as he closed his eyes again. Then he heard the child murmur forlornly, "Papa..." Keith jerked to full attention, shoving the blankets off of him as his pulse roared in his ears. He felt himself breathing but he wasn't getting enough air, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he had to get out, he couldn't --
Suddenly Keith was back in that burning house. There was no warning - he had been awoken by flames licking up the wall, engulfing his closet and blocking the window. They creeped steadily toward his bedroom door, and he knew he had to get out before he was blocked in. "DAD!" Keith cried out, choking on the smoke as it stung his eyes. He got up and started stumbling towards the door, but the heat was so intense that he was afraid to approach it. "Dad!" he shouted hoarsely as tears streamed from his sore eyes and he began to feel lightheaded.
Keith heard the footsteps before he saw anything - his father barrelled through the door, grunting at the passing heat. He pressed a damp bandana to Keith's mouth and moved Keith's hand to hold it in place, nodding encouragingly when Keith held it there, then hoisted him over his shoulder and ran.
Keith's dad took off through his bedroom door - Keith felt the heat singe the hair on his arms and he gasped at the stinging pain, but kept the wet cloth pressed to his face. The fire was eating away at most of the house by now, including the entire back half and the backdoor that was their closest escape. His dad muttered a quick curse and changed direction to the front door at the far end of the house. Keith could see fire creeping along the roof and the walls, but the path to the door was mostly clear. They were almost there when an awful, cracking noise caused them both to look up. The load bearing beam that spanned the whole house front to back was burning and splintering, spewing forth embers. For a moment Keith thought that if it wasn't so terrifying, it would be beautiful.
But he had no time to actually react, no time to think further on that, before he was bodily tossed out the front door down the porch steps. The wood splintered and scraped against him as bruises blossomed along his body. He tumbled to the dirt path. The same moment he landed, and what little air he had in his lung was expelled by his impact, he heard the crash. It was so loud that he flinched and covered his ears with his hands on instinct. He had never heard anything so loud. He achingly pushed himself up on his elbows and looked up to the burning building - the entrance now fully on fire beneath the collapsed beam, and his father nowhere in sight. Someone was screaming, it might have been him. Sirens blaring behind him announced the approach of emergency vehicles, adding to the cacophany. Keith covered his ears again, closed his eyes, and sobbed.
---
"...ok...you're ok.... shhhh you're safe...." He didn't know how long the caretaker had been whispering gentle reassurances and rubbing his back as slowly regained his awareness. He realized he wasn't at that burning house, he wasn't covered in ash and blood and dirt. He was in his bed at the group home, wheezing slightly through a sore throat, brows furrowed and eyes wide. None of the other children were asleep - the lights were on and they were all looking in his direction. Some looked angry, tired and annoyed, but most had sympathetic or sad expressions on their faces. Some of them were crying. They turned their eyes away when he looked toward them. A few of them lied back down and retreated beneath their covers.
He put a hand to his cheek, felt the wetness from his own tears, and looked up into the eyes of the one who was comforting him. Keith didn't know her name, or didn't remember what it was. He wasn't sure if she'd told him. But she met his gaze steadily, her eyes a little watery, and a small worried smile on her face. "Are you back with us?" she asked calmly. Keith nodded, looking back down to his hands. The scrapes and burns were still there, but scabbed over and bandaged. He nodded again, though she hadn't asked him anything.
She handed him a glass of water, which he sipped from at her prompting, and she turned away to retrieve his discarded blanket from the floor. In a matter of minutes, the lights were back off, a few infrequent sniffles, coughs, and rustling sheets to be heard as kids settled back into sleep, but otherwise all was quiet. Keith was awake for some time, but eventually he must have drifted off because before he knew it, he was waking up at the morning call for breakfast, his eyes puffy and crusted over from last night's tears. He found that he couldn't float anymore. It would be too easy to get stuck in that flashback again. He had to face the reality in front of him.