"Back off, Pete," Aaron told me in Finnish. I said nothing but instead started strumming heavy chords to start the song. Aaron caught on first- he probably knew my father's songs as well as I do- and plucked a few notes repeatedly on his bass. Greg did a drum roll before hitting the drums in time. My left hand flew up and down the fret board right before Milo started to scream the lyrics to the song.

It took four more red bulls to get me through the night.

I crashed on the couch when Aaron and I got back to our appartment, not even making it to my bedroom. I dreaded falling asleep, knowing what was coming, but my eyes were too heavy and I finally caved...

My dad's tour bus had a pungent and somewhat smokey smell that I will never forget. Gustaf, the drummer, was always a heavy smoker and he only got worse when he played poker.

"Could you stop smoking around my kid?" my mother asked him as she dealt out a new hand of cards to all the members in my father's band. She talked in Finnish; everyone always talked in Finnish in my dreams.

"Don't nag so much," my father scolded her, "We played a great show. Let the man have his reward."

"Smoking isn't a reward- it'll kill him," my mother continued, "and you want your friend to 'reward' himself and harm our child's precious health? If he dies someday because of this I will never forgive you."

"I don't see why you are making this such a big deal," my father also continued, "You smoke too."

"Not around Peter, I don't!" she yelled.

"Oh, now that's just bullsh*t," my father said.

"How so?" my mother pressed.

"You smoked when you were pregnant with him!"

A thump on the card table immediately stopped the arguement. Gustaf, who was plenty drunk by now, had passed out on the table. His cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto the carpetted floor. The carpet, which was dirty and old- a fire hazard to begin with, started smoldering and a small fire began.

"Do you smell something?" my mother asked.

"Fire," a three-year-old me replied.

"Gerardo, I think he's right," my mother said in a panicky tone.

As the fire started to spread, all the band mates -and my mother- started to panic... well, all except for Gustaf, the 250 lb drummer who had passed out by the door, blocking our only exit. We were all trapped in a burning tour bus. Weren't we lucky...

My mother tried to call 911, but she hung up when she realized the operator only spoke English. Wow, English was spoken in England. Imagine that.

Then it started to occur to people that we were pretty much doomed. Fire was spreading very quickly in the small space of the tour bus, and it was starting to catch a hold of the bottom of people's clothing. Beacuse I was young and close to the ground, fire started to crawl up my back and up my right shoulder. I screamed in pain and my father finally noticed me.

"Gotta save Pete," he muttered to himself. There was a window that was partly opened, no big even for a full grown adult to fit through, but maybe for a three-year-old. He lifted me and shoved me through it.

I was nearly out -but not quiet- and still on fire when the tour bus exploded. To this day, I still don't know what could have cause the explosion. Even though my mind only had the maturity level of a toddler, I knew right then that my parents were gone. I flew from the force of the explosion and tumbled down a grassy hill; the fire extinguishing as I did so. The rest of the scene is a blur to me now, but my feelings towards my parents are still the same. I hated my parents for fighting just before they died. I hated my dad for saving my life and sacrificing his. I hate being in debt to a man I can never pay back. I hate my past.

I awoke with a start, cold sweat dripping off my forehead.

"Did you have the dream again?" Aaron asked from the kitchen.

"Yeah," I replied. I always had this dream. Always. Every night. For as long as Aaron has known me, he never once asked me about it, so one day about a year or two ago, I flat out told him. He knew what others didn't- that my worst fear is fire- and yet he has never once told me to suck it up and learn to deal with it. But this was probably because he knew I'd retaliate with the same statement, and Aaron was in no hurry to face his fear of clowns.

"Then look away," Aaron told me, "I'm making eggs so I'm gonna have to light the burner."

I turned to face to opposite wall and stared out the window. Even as I heard the clicking sound of Aaron setting the burner on a particular temperature, the hairs on the back of my neck rose, I got goosebumps all over, and the scars on my back where I got burnt all those years ago started to tingle.

Then I saw a dark figure cross the outside of the window, walking towards our door.

"Someone's coming," I told Aaron.