Westlake Soul by Rio Youers

adorned with paintings and crafts, certificates and badges, and two small trophies. One for hockey, the other for skateboarding. Flames licked across the wall and the corners of the paintings curled and blackened. I leapt to my feet, crying out, forgetting Dr. Quietus for the moment and trying to rescue the mementos of my early life. I plucked the certificates from the wall and quelled the flames with my bare hands. I grabbed ugly pottery, daubed permanently with my little thumbprints, only to have it crumble between my fingers and fall in dull shards to the ground. A painting of planet earth (WESTLAKE SOUL AGE 7 scrawled in one corner) began to blister—broad brown holes—as if it were being struck by asteroids. I snatched it down and blew on the spreading flames, but it only quickened the destruction. Within seconds it was engulfed. Clumps of ash rained down on my dandy superhero boots.
    It’s the end of the world, Westlake
, Dr. Quietus said, stepping over glowing rubble and timbers burned to a velvety texture.
The end of your world, at least.
    I looked at him, emerging from flames, his shadow dancing everywhere. Smoke rippled from beneath his cowl. I imagined him exhaling it from lungs like bullet casings.
    It’s all over
, he said.
    My helpless feeling deepened. I sagged, fell against the wall. Watched my Godzilla comforter go up in flames. My computer keyboard buckle. My bookcase collapse and spit a mouthful of charred pieces, like crows flying into a fan. Dr. Quietus laughed as my hockey trophy hit the floor and broke into three burning pieces. I caught my skateboarding trophy before it could do the same. The column was scorched. Too hot to hold, but I held it, anyway—
gripped
it. The figure had melted. No longer a silver-toned dude pulling a handplant. More like a stiletto heel, or a spearhead with the tip snipped off.
    There’s no escape this time
, Dr. Quietus growled.
    I thought of Dad, drinking coffee and brushing toast crumbs off his tie, unaware that his only son was dying in the bedroom down the hall. And Mom, one hand on the alarm clock, dreaming hazily while her firstborn breathed his last.
    It’s over, Westlake.
    Niki and Hub sleeping, curled together like a couple of horseshoes. My body would be a waxen shell by the time they woke up. As lifeless as the tube jutting from my stomach.
    More smoke oozed from Dr. Quietus’s grin. He took another step toward me.
    And Yvette . . . I thought of her, too. Hair covering one side of her face. Looking through my cracked window.
    I pushed myself off the wall and squared my shoulders.
    No
, I said.
There’s too much to live for. People who love me. Need me.
I thought of the ocean. Pink and blue and orange and white. Roaring and breaking.
Too many waves yet to ride . . . to tame.
    Dr. Quietus faltered. His grin disappeared.
    It’s not your choice
, he said.
    My life. My choice.
    Not anymore.
    He growled and ran at me, lowering his shoulders and swinging fists the size of warheads. His cloak flapped as he leapt a pile of burning debris, and I cocked my right arm, drawing the skateboarding trophy over my shoulder. I threw it as his boots clunked down, less than ten feet away. It whizzed through the air like a giant dart, flames flickering from the base, and struck him square in the middle of the chest.
    SHHWUUMPP!
    A scream—more smoke—bellowed from inside the cowl. Dr. Quietus staggered back. He grasped the part of the trophy that protruded from his chest and dislodged it with a sucking sound. I used the moment to strike again, kicking up a swirl of distracting ashes, then lunging forward and ramming my fist into the mysterious bone of his face.
    KA-THUNK!
    He turned a full three-sixty, toppled backward, and crashed into the utility space beneath my loft bed. Two of the posts crumbled and the bed—still burning—collapsed on top of him. An umbrella of sparks and ashes opened, marking my departure like a magician’s smoke effect. I launched myself though