Creative Writing: Beatty's Fahrenheit 451

This was the end. Beatty felt heat rolling off of the house burning in front of him. He reveled in the ocean of warmth. He thought it not the worst way to go. The green bullet he had taken from Montag was heavy in his pocket, reminding him of the vast list of things he still had yet to accomplish. Beatty heard the safety catch click under Montag’s finger. He knew his seconds were numbered. His heart was fluttering in his chest, his blood felt like fire; so hot it burned cold. The eyes clutching at Beatty’s own were empty, but bright with a twinkle that let Beatty know that Montag had the upper hand. He had something to fight for. Beatty did not. He drew what he knew would be his final steady breath. “Hand it over, Guy,” Beatty commanded

A beautiful cloud of pain slammed into him, a tsunami sending the world toppling over. Immeasurable pain which distorted his vision, flipping everything sideways. Pain that ate away his thoughts, his memories, and finally, his body. His vision went red, then white, then every color he could imagine. Red. Orange. Yellow. Blue. Purple. White hot. Red again. The brightest and most painful red he had ever experienced. The monster bit and slashed at him, lapping at his skin. He could feel the acrid breath of the fire falling into his lungs, sinking in and staining them black with

They were blood-red and painfully orange. Screaming seemed to come from everywhere, shoving itself into every pore of Beatty’s body. The smell of burning flesh hit him like a bullet train, forcing Beatty to turn, to attempt to fling the doors back open, but the heavy stone remained set in place. He was trapped.

The realization painted his face whiter than the fire beside him.

Beatty forced his feet to move over the charred, dirt path. He wound his way around burning mounds which writhed in agony. More than once, someone managed to claw their way out of the pile, reaching out to Beatty, calling for help. Distorted figures cried out in agony, begging for a rescue that would never come. One even managed to make it to his feet, draping a burning hand across his leg.

“Please, sir, dip thy finger in water and quench my parched tongue. I am in agony in this fire,” The man cried out, clinging to Beatty like a lost child. Beatty recoiled, disgusted, and dragged his leg out of the grasp of the burning figure. Without a second glance, he thrust his leg back behind him and shoved the man back into the burning heap. He listened as the man’s screams filled the air, joining in with the screams of the other tortured