The Day I Died

My name is Michael Axe. On April 11, 2023, at 3 PM, I died in a house fire. This is not a work of fiction. Everything I write now is true.

Tuesday April 11th started as any other. I get up, got dressed and go outside to my garage where my office is. It’s not much of a workspace, but it’s mine. Last week on April 3rd (My Birthday) I gave my office a bit of an upgrade. A USB charging station, a wireless phone charger, and enough cords to charge anything and everything if needed. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it helped make things easier.

The garage originally belonged to my Papa’s (Grandpa’s). While we work on two totally different things, me with my writing and him with his woodworking, it was always nice to think that we used the same place to do what we love.

Around 11:45, my wife calls saying she has to bring our middle child home because she’s not feeling well. I put the writing on hold, go inside and once she’s home, I get her all settled on the couch and tell her to relax. I head back out to the office and get back to writing.

God bless Arizona’s weather. It’s only April, and it’s 84 degrees today. Thankfully, the Prescott area gets some good wind, so the breeze is nice and strong today. I finish editing the current chapter and print out the pages for my wife to read. I stand and stretch. The clock reads 3:00. That’s a good day’s work, I tell myself.

Normally, I’d move from my desk chair and into my comfortable leather chair to read. But since I have a sick kid at home, I should go hang out with her for a bit.

Exiting the garage, I smell the faintest smell of burning, but that’s not uncommon. Inside, I find her in her room and sure enough; she tells me she’s board. I tell her to read a book.

“I already did that, Dad.” She tells me.

“Well, read another chapter.” I tell her.

She grumbles, of course. She’d rather play the Switch or watch something on TV. So I offer her the option of reading for 30 more minutes and then she can play 30 minutes for free, no Dad Dollars required. Dad Dollars is money I print for my kids that they earn for doing certain chores and then can cash in for different things like time on screens.

She tells me she would, but she’s stuck on a particular level on Mario Odyssey. So, like any good Dad would do, I pulled out my phone and find a video that solves her problem. After the 10 min video, she’s now pumped to get to reading because now she has a game to beat.

Leaving her room, I make my way back to the living room; the room has filled with smoke. Thick gray smoke. I look out the back window and black smoke is billowing from behind the garage.

I run as fast as I can to the back to see what’s going on. The neighbours that live behind us, their car in the driveway, has engulfed in flames and the side of their home is on fire. The fire already spreading to their backyard and has crept past the easement and past my fence. My yard is on fire.

I race into my office and yell, “Echo Announcement, GET OUT HERE AND TURN THE HOSE ON QUICK!” By the time the chime begins, I realize I made a mistake. She’ll be too emotional to help turn on the water. By the time I run back to the house and crank the hose to full power, I hear the door open and she sobs immediately. I probably would too if I was 9 years old. I tell her it’s going to be OK, but get back in the house. The door slams immediately shut.

Back at the fence, I grab the hose and spray every fire I can in our yard. I keep thinking, If I can just keep the flames at bay long enough, the fire crew will be here to put it out. Every fire I put out another one seems to start. The wind that, just a few moments ago, kept me nice and cool, now re-sparked the flame I just put out.

Each passing second, it grows hotter and hotter. I step away from the heat long enough to turn the hose on myself and cover my body with water. I go back in to defend everything that I own.

I probably should have explained earlier that my family moved in with my mother during COVID. Everything I owe is in that garage. Not just my office, E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. 2,000 books, all my old childhood toys, a Nintendo, Super Nintendo, N64, the PlayStation, the PS2, the Dreamcast, year books, boxes filled with memories. When I say everything, I truly mean everything.

My legs burn from the heat, but I don’t stop. I must defend my castle. That’s when the explosions start. I don’t know what they are. Fuel from the car, propane tank from their grill, this is Arizona, so it could be ammo from inside the house. The booms come one after another. They’re so loud I can feel them in my chest.

I have a daughter in the house. My things aren’t worth my life. I have to abandon my post. I drop the hose and run into the garage and grab my laptop. By now I can hear the sirens. They’ll have the fire out in no time. I was only out there for only a minute, maybe two.

Inside the house, I call out to my daughter. She doesn’t respond. I yell her name. Still silence. Over and over, I yell her name. Nothing. “You have to answer me. I need to know you’re safe.” I’m met with a reply of quiet. And that’s when I notice the front doors unlocked.

I fling the door open and yell louder than I have in years. That’s when I notice all the police cars and the officers are running from house to house. “Sir,” one of them yells from my front yard, “we have your daughter. She’s safe. You have to evacuate.” It’s worse than I thought. The fire department is still only setting up. They’re nowhere near turning on their hoses yet. By this time, the officer is walking up our ramp to make sure I get out.

I tell him to hold on and close the door. (probably not the smartest thing I could have done) I’m being directed by God, or sheer instinct. I run back to the garage and in my office; I grab my leather portfolio sleeve that I use to transport my laptop and hard drives in. With the bag in hand, I race back in the house, grab the laptop and head out the front door.

I ask the officer, what do I do about the dogs? I don’t know where their leases are. He tells me there’s nothing we can do. We have to leave them. As we run down the ramp, I think, “I’m sorry.” I love my dogs and my cats, but there’s nothing I can do. The officer is ensuring I’m out of there.

He tells me that my daughter is in the 3rd squad car back. I run. She’s with the Chaplin. I call out to her. We hug and we both cry. I ask if she’s OK. In between sobs, she says yes. The Chaplin tells me she’s been a very brave girl.

“Did you go out front because you were scared?” I ask.

“No, the police kept banging on the door, so I opened it.”

I tell her that was good. We’ve told our kids never to open the door. This time, I’m grateful she disobeyed her parents. She lets me know that she’s called her Mom, and she and Oma (my mother) are on their way.

I call my wife, but she’s already a mess. Thankfully, a coworker is driving her home. My phone beeps. Mom is calling me on the other line. I hang up with my wife and switch over. We talk briefly, but I tell her she needs to focus and just get here safely.

My daughter and I pray together. I ask that our house will be safe. I ask that the animals inside will be safe. And here I’m now ashamed to say, I purposefully left out praying for our pet rabbits. Their hutch sits only a few feet away from the garage. I didn’t want to explain why God didn’t answer our prayers of keeping them alive. (more on this later)

I tell her to stay with the Chaplin because I need to see if our house is OK. It’s not. Flames are coming out the front of the garage. But by now the water is flowing and the blue gray smoke of fire being extinguished can be seen. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

Back with my daughter, she asked me if the bunnies are OK. I tell her I don’t know. She cries some more. With the flames I saw, I don’t have hope. I check my phone. My wife is somewhere on our street.

“Wait here, I’m going to get Mom.” I tell her.

My wife has been crying. She ask me what happened. I bring her up to speed on what I’ve witnessed. We’re in shock. We don’t know what to do but watch. Even with all the water they’re using, the flames aren’t going out. Just more smoke.

My poor mother, a young 70something-year-old with two recent knee replacements, has to walk a quarter of a mile to get to the house. My wife’s coworker takes our daughter and they leave to go back to school. This way, she doesn’t have to experience any more of the damage and she can be with her two sisters.

Three hours later, the fire is out. Our garage, my office, is a skeleton of blacked char. I didn’t want to bother the fire fighters because they’re still diligently working. One is off to the side and I ask if he knows if our rabbits are OK.

“It was a really hot fire. I don’t know if they lived or not.”

I ask if it’s OK to at least go inside to check on the dogs and cats. He says yes. Inside, smoke still lingers in the air. All three dogs come running up to me. All freaked out, but all safe. I soon find the three cats equally safe.

The fire fighters eventually give me permission to go check on the rabbits, as long as I stay far away from the garage. I walk up to the hutch expecting to see dead bunnies. They all are alive. They’re scarred, wet and some even slightly singed from the heat, but all alive. I pray and ask for forgiveness for the lack of faith.

The girls come home and we’re finally able to assess the damage. Still smoldering, but safe to approach. There is nothing left. Burnt pages float around the yard. Inside the cavity that was once my beloved workspace, we find toppled shelving, ash, and remains of books. I can’t even find my desk. It’s buried under the rubble. Everything that made me, me, is gone. 43 years that was my life, now cremated.

It’s dark now. I didn’t even realize the sun went down. I have no emotions to give. Did this all really happen? The heat from the fire on my legs and arms reminds me it did. I shower. Get in to pajamas. And go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up in the morning, it will all be just a bad dream.

<Next Post Coming Soon>

If you’ve made it this far, Thank You! I find it therapeutic that I write about what happened. I’ll write new posts about how I’ve progressed along this horrific event.