Experiences: The Fire.

The day of the fire, I got scared out of my mind. That day I was sitting down listening to music at a moderate volume—quite low, actually, because I like listening to music very quietly—and sitting at my PC chatting on MSN. I had the windows open. It was hot. It was late afternoon; I don't remember the exact time, but I think it was around five o'clock.

Then I heard some screaming, but I ignored it. The neighbor downstairs had a habit of screaming—in fact, she screamed all the time; whenever she spoke, she shouted. Her daughter lived one floor further down, right below her. Her daughter had a habit of shouting back, repeating what her mother said—I gather it was her way of mocking the nuisance caused by her mother's shouting. Screaming was just a habit in that family. So I paid no attention to the screams I heard because I assumed they were the usual ones.

Except that day, they weren't those kinds of screams; they were screams about a fire. I was still as calm as could be at the PC, listening to music and chatting, but the shouting kept going. At one point it struck me as odd, so I went to the window, and I heard the shouting was something like "Get out, it's on fire!" I started to get worried. I didn't know what was happening, and I couldn't see anything from that window, nor could I see down below. But the women shouting were the mother and grandmother of the girl whose apartment was on fire—yes, the grandmother lived in the building too.

Fearing the unknown gravity of the situation and hearing all that shouting, I turned around and opened the other window. As I looked out, a black cloud of smoke that had engulfed the entire light well of the building was rising fast. Right then, my previous concern turned into pure terror. The first thing that popped into my head was: close everything and head down. So I immediately closed all the windows and grabbed essential items like my keys, watch, and documents—I don't know how I managed to waste time on that, though I always keep them in the same spot—and I also grabbed a handkerchief, put on my shirt, and just before leaving, it crossed my mind that maybe the fire was at the very bottom and I wouldn't be able to make it out. A very silly thought; I don't know how my mind found time to process such things at that moment. Others might have bolted instantly just as they were.

Since the shouting continued, I thought about opening a window again to ask if it was possible to get down. The black cloud was almost at the top by then. I opened the window lightning fast and yelled, "Can we get down?" The two women who were shouting—and who clearly weren't going downstairs—heard me and replied, "By the stairs!" They had heard me, but they hadn't understood what I actually asked. So I closed everything up again and rushed to leave.

When I opened the door, a wave of white smoke rushed in. I slammed it shut instantly, without even setting a foot outside. My fear doubled. I told myself deep down that I wasn't going to make it out of this one, but I immediately convinced myself that I had to leave and push forward all the way to the bottom. Since the smoke that rushed in made me realize I couldn't see a thing, I went to grab my flashlight—since that day, I always keep a flashlight right by the door (already loaded with batteries).

The second thing I did almost instantaneously was pull out the handkerchief I had grabbed. One mistake I made was not wetting it; it's common knowledge that when using a handkerchief to cover your mouth and nose in a fire, you should wet it so it acts as a filter. Well, I didn't wet it; my mind couldn't think that far ahead, though I should have. Fire smoke isn't just regular smoke; it's filled with lots of harmful particles, some of them so large you can actually see them floating around.

With the handkerchief in hand, I turned on the flashlight, opened the door again, stepped out, and closed it behind me. Later, I forgot whether I had just shut the door or actually locked it; a doubt crossed my mind about whether I had left it open, but no, I had closed it.

As I started walking at top speed, I realized that even with the flashlight, I couldn't see anything—I could barely make out a tiny faint beam of light. I reached the stairwell with my mouth and nose covered by the dry handkerchief, which wasn't doing much good. I couldn't see anything, but by feeling my way around, I managed to locate the stairs. Feeling along the wall, I started going down. Since the steps are wider on the wall side, I pressed myself against the wall, terrified of slipping, missing a step, and tumbling down. This left me with a few scrapes on the back of my hand as I used it for balance.

I finished descending the first flight, accelerating my pace more and more. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. Reaching the fourth floor, I saw a clear area, so with about three steps left, I jumped. I realized there wasn't as much smoke there—smoke tends to rise, and the fire was on that very floor. Realizing this calmed me down significantly. All of this happened in a span of time I can't measure; it felt instantaneous.

When I landed after jumping those last steps, I made a small noise. Walking down the hallway on that floor were two or three people—I can't recall exactly, but I'm almost certain there were two: the building superintendent and another man. Both were crouching. The superintendent had a fire extinguisher, and the other guy had a flashlight and a broom. As I came out and jumped, I saw them, and hearing the noise, they turned around and saw me. The only thing I thought to ask them was, "What about the people upstairs?"
Two or three elderly people lived upstairs who couldn't possibly make it out on their own. Given the situation, I thought they had passed away—which luckily turned out not to be the case, but that's what crossed my mind at the time. The superintendent replied, "You can't go up any further." He was right; it was impossible. In fact, I had just come from up there.

I didn't offer to help or join them; I think my sole priority at that moment was getting out of there. Honestly, a mix of the shock and what I had seen—the sheer volume of smoke—made me focus only on escaping. Besides, there wasn't a specific task requiring my help, and on top of that, I was angry that nobody had bothered to ring all the doorbells to warn everyone to evacuate.

This outraged me even more when I got downstairs and saw the owner of the affected apartment crying and worrying about her dog rather than about the people in the other apartments—a reaction I found quite deplorable. I suppose one has to be in that person's shoes, but as much as you might love a dog, fellow human beings should come first. I say "should" because clearly that isn't the case for many people. The woman who made it out first didn't even bother to ring the other doorbells to notify anyone else about what was happening.

Anyway, after the superintendent answered me, I continued heading down while they kept moving toward the burning apartment. I finally reached the ground floor. There were only a few people there. I stood there watching for a little bit as other residents started coming out, along with that woman sitting there crying over her dog. I didn't ring any intercoms because I assumed someone had already done it.

Then the superintendent came back down—or I don't recall clearly—and shortly after, the firefighters arrived, followed by a police officer. A moment later, an ambulance parked at the corner. People, mostly those who had self-evacuated, started gathering around the entrance. The police officer took charge of clearing everyone back to make sure they weren't in the way. As soon as I got out, I stood by the neighboring building. But there are always onlookers—those useless people who have no need to be there yet end up right in the middle of everything—and they were certainly there. So the police officer was busy moving them along. At the same time, several residents returning from outside and the usual busybodies were gossiping and jumping to conclusions about what happened, joined by passersby and curious onlookers crowding around to watch the scene.

The firefighters geared up with their oxygen tanks and axes and started heading up with the hose from the fire truck. Of course, it's not like in the first world; firefighters in Argentina face many deficiencies, and despite the commendable work they do, the government and most of society look the other way, ignoring the needs of this profession.

After a while, they turned on the water. I'm not sure how they entered—whether through the main door or by rappelling from the roof. My window was open almost halfway, as was the glass pane; I imagine it was to check if the fire had reached the inside of my apartment or if there was no need to go in to extinguish flames. The apartment below had also been forced open; later, I managed to see that one of its windows was broken. Finally, you could see the affected apartment, which was completely destroyed—the fire had consumed everything there.

I saw all this once I was able to return, but while the firefighters were working, I stayed downstairs. The superintendent of the building next door evacuated his building as a precaution. At that point, the extent of the damage was unknown, and there were fears of an explosion or collapse.
After a while, more evacuated people kept coming out of the building: one guy in shorts and no shirt; a woman who came out with her baby girl wrapped in a towel (she mentioned she had been trapped in the bathroom, terrified, and had placed the baby in the bathtub); and another young man who was taken to the ambulance to be given some oxygen.

Standing against a wall, listening to a group of gossiping neighbors—which annoyed me greatly—I took advantage of the neighbors evacuating the building next door to go make a phone call. It was then I realized I was still holding the flashlight—a large, very noticeable metal one. I had completely forgotten I had it with me. I walked to the convenience store a block away and made my phone call. On my way back, I noticed soot all over my arms. Later, when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I had soot all over my face and body. I was filthy, all from that heavy black smoke.

A couple more police officers had arrived due to the gathering crowd and the unfolding situation. Finally, after a couple of hours of work, once the firefighters ensured everything was clear and the fire was fully extinguished—luckily with no fatalities—they gave the green light for people to re-enter.
Having returned and watched closely, as soon as I saw it was safe to go in, I went right ahead. That's when they stopped me to sign some paperwork for the fire department—me and another person who was also heading inside. We signed the form and went upstairs. Water was dripping down the entire staircase. My fear was about my open door—I don't know what I was afraid of, but it worried me. When I got up there, I saw that I had indeed closed it.

I stepped inside, and the carbon monoxide alarm was blaring. It didn't stop for quite a while. I opened everything to air the place out, but it was impossible; the smell of smoke was overwhelming. It didn't fully air out until months later. Everything was black—the amount of soot was unbelievable. I had to clean everything multiple times just to make it somewhat decent.

A little later, the loud neighbor peeked through the hallway door, wandering around to see what had happened, and asked me what the noise was. I told her it was the carbon monoxide alarm, and she left.
Sometime later, the entire family from the burned apartment—grandmother, mother, and daughter—moved out.

And that is the chronicle of the day of the fire.