Help
in
the
Ashes
By
Christa
Avampato
"I
think
it's
brave
to
try
to
get
through
this
alone.
But
you
can't.
You
need
help."
On
a
bright
December
day,
three
months
after
my
apartment
building
caught
fire,
I
was
in
trouble.
And
despite
my
shiny
veneer
and
tough
smile,
a
friend
of
mine
told
me
I
couldn't
fix
this
alone.
I
couldn't
stitch
the
singed
and
still
smoking
shards
of
my
life
back
together
on
my
own.
I
needed
someone.
I
needed
Brian.
I
just
hadn't
met
him
yet.
I
didn't
tell
anyone
about
the
nightmares
when
everything
I
saw
and
touched
turned
to
ash.
I
didn’t
share
my
struggles
with
intense
anger
and
my
inability
to
buy
anything.
I’d
find
myself
walking
through
the
streets
crying
for
no
reason
until
I
made
myself
sick.
One
day
I
was
sitting
on
the
edge
of
the
sidewalk,
wailing
because
I
forgot
where
I
was
going
and
why.
I
couldn’t
even
remember
how
or
when
I
got
there.
I
climbed
up
a
short
ladder
to
hang
a
picture
on
the
pristine
wall
of
my
new
apartment
and
had
a
panic
attack
so
severe
I
almost
fell
climbing
back
down
to
the
floor.
No
one
knew.
No
one
could
ever
know.
I
was
losing
it.
I
was
watching
myself
fall
into
madness,
my
old
friend.
Madness
took
my
dad
17
years
before
my
apartment
building
caught
fire.
Now,
I
was
on
my
way
to
meet
him.
On
that
day
in
December,
my
friend
gave
me
Brian's
name,
number,
and
address.
“Call
him,”
he
said.
“Today.”
To
appease
my
friend,
I
went
to
see
Brian
in
his
dark
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