New Year: Still Can't Catch a Break

I sit cross-legged in my bed, my hair damp after a shower. A small blizzard outside my window reflects the light from street lamps and casts a dull grey glow from the road to the sky. The time is around eleven thirty at night. My evening chores are done earlier than usual so my chances of getting more than eight hours of sleep are high. I’m about to open my laptop to put on some soothing ocean sounds for white noise when the bells go off. 
The building’s fire alarm. 
Stunned, I get up and wander to my door, open it, and peek out to see if anyone is leaving their apartments. There is no one to be found. I know at least five or six people live on my floor and yet I see none of them. 
Maybe it’s a drill. Except they warn us with notes in the elevator a day or so in advance if that’s the case. And it’s nighttime. 
It’s not a drill. 
I call my mum. It’s the only thing I can think of and I need her direction on what I should do. As I wait for her to pick up I pace around my house muttering cusses. She would be asleep. Her timezone is three hours ahead. She’s in another country on the other side of the continent. She can’t come rescue me but I call her anyway. When she picks up I explain the fire alarm situation and I’m told to go outside even if it might not be an actual emergency. Since I’m donning only boxers and a tee shirt, I add on some layers before leaving. Mind you, my brain isn’t working at this point so I only grab a hoodie, joggers, Walmart socks, and waterproof shoes. No coat, no flannel, no hat or gloves, nothing else to keep me warm. I leave my house armed with my keys, mask, and phone with my mother on the other side. I lock the door and head to the elevators noticing now that people are milling around in the hallway. Realizing that the elevator isn’t an option in these situations, I about face and go for the stairwell. I am frantic, voicing every concern and fear and feeling I have to my mother as I descend the empty stairwell. 
When I make it outside I see a crowd of fellow residents gathered around the building. The snow falls heavily and the wind bites. I pace around the perimeter of the building, searching for any sign of flames, narrating my every move to my mother. Sirens scream, it’s not a rare thing for downtown, but now I know who they’re for. Three fire engines arrive, one at one side of the building, two at the other, and a few police cars. I still see no flames as I cross the street to observe the side with the greater response unit. I’m shivering, my wet hair not helping to ward off the winter storm.
 I switch the call to Facetime and show my mother the flashing lights surrounding my building. Whilst she reassures me that it’s nothing serious and I shouldn’t worry, all I can think about is what I might lose. My father’s seven-hundred-dollar jacket that he bought when he thought he’d get rich. My bicycle that I hadn’t ridden in months but loved dearly nonetheless. My longbow. My photo albums. Everything I had just received for Christmas. My heaps of books. The street couch that was found with friends and the street coffee table they gifted to me afterward. My stuffed rabbit from when I was a child and the stuffed dog from when my mum was. I thought about all my clothing that I had accumulated over the years that would burn. I thought of my bunk bed and my multitude of blankets. I pictured my plants, the only other sign of life in my house. Everything I had I couldn’t fathom losing. It all carried a memory or a use case and because of that, it was all irreplaceable. I didn’t even bring my wallet or laptop with me. My belongings had been part of the reason I didn’t leave right away. If I thought about what to save, it would only mean that this situation was real and that the things that were left could parish. I even had half a heart to stay put and go down with the ship as it were rather than potentially lose everything I owned. Just as one of my friends describes herself, I consider me to be a maximalist. I like having things and stuff. I like adding to my abode and thinking about what I’ll do with everything when I have a real house. Much of what I own symbolizes my future, it has a proper purpose sometime from now when life is better and stable. I also happen to be a very sentimental person who holds many memories in physical objects so the concept of it all turning to ash made my heart clench. I can not lose what lies in my apartment because I feel as though I would lose myself, at least, most of me, who I am, what I built, my existence. 
Because I’m not thinking properly, I assume if the building goes down, I would ultimately freeze to death anyway since no businesses are open and I have no bus pass or money so staying in my apartment would’ve just ended me sooner. It doesn’t cross my mind once that I have two friends with homes that could take me in. Luckily, that isn’t something I have to dwell too much on. At some point during my continuous reporting and grumbling to my mother, we murder-building-inhabitants are informed that the fire is on the tenth floor. My mum lets me go shortly after this, but not before ordering me to take photos of the scene. I wander around to digitally document my surroundings. I then stand where I can keep an eye on my balcony, exchange some words with a few other residents, and head to the base of the building to seek some form of shelter beneath an overhang. There I spot a couple decked out in puffer jackets and carrying backpacks and realize how stupid I look in comparrisson with my lack of layers and essential items.
My tense and stressed exchange with my mum lasted thirteen minutes. Another seven or so go by before a firefighter gives us the all clear to go back inside. It was “a mishap in the kitchen”, he says. Relief floods me. After waiting a while for an elevator with a growing group of people, a gent announces he’s able to open the door to the stairwell. Anxious to get back to my hovel, I take up the offer, heading outside again and in through another door. Hurrying up the seven flights with a mask on leaves me out of breath, but the joy of seeing my suite in one piece overpowers any negative feelings from that. 
The heat of my room-house welcomes my snow soaked self. I leave my shoes by the door to keep from tracking in water any further. I lay my hoodie and joggers over the back of my couch to dry. I have a quick update call with my mum again to let her know all is well. The time is eleven fifty-seven. No longer will I get eight hours of sleep and seniors day is tomorrow. The most I can hope for now is that the snow prevents me from getting to work, or at least, the seniors from getting to the drug store. 
When I had talked to my mother about losing everything I ever had, she mentioned the Cabin Porn calendar that she’d sent in the mail. She told me I would at least have that. Her statement got me thinking about what else I had ordered that hadn’t arrived yet and, if all else was lost, I’d have a second tee shirt, knock-off Berks, lots of underwear, and that calendar with pictures of lovely cabins from all over the world. It didn’t necessarily make me feel better, but it was a funny thing to think about. But this is precisely why I have never wanted to live in an apartment. One of my greatest fears from that came true. I hate being at the mercy of other people and if I had my land and cabin, I’d only have to worry about my own actions. Nevertheless, my shit survived so when I finally achieve that, the place will instantly have all the furnishings and decor needed to make it homey.
So, once again, I sit cross-legged in my bed, my hair damp after a shower and the snow. The blizzard continues outside. I open my laptop and put on some calming sleep music to ease my body and mind. My thoughts throw images of more and more things I could have lost and more reasonable reactions I could have had were that fire to spread. Eventually though, my brain tires and sleep claims me.