Fashion to die for.

The flames grow closer by the second as door drapery erupts, and the seat cushions, flames leaping from one seat to the next, from one row to the next. The dimmed wall lights have gone out, the only illumination coming from the flames, everything muted by thick, dark smoke. You're hemmed in on all sides by people pushing and grasping, their indignance replaced by terror. Some try to get closer to the door, others struggle to free themselves from the crowd and reach a different exit.
Their shouts, "Open the doors!" "Let us out!" are interspersed with cries of "Put it out! Oh, my God, put it out!" And the screams have become, from over there, then there.  Blood-curdling screams.

Next to you is your daughter, crying, reaching to encircle your neck, as she'd tried to climb into your arms when she was a toddler. "Mama I'm scared, what is happening, Mama?!" You want desperately to soothe her, protect her, but in the back of your mind is worry about your mother. Is she still following, among those pushing everyone forward? You had to help your daughter first, Mama knew that. She said, "You take her, I'll follow you," But did she make it up the aisle? Was she one of the hundreds of voices crying out in the darkness?  Was that her? You want to cling to her, as your daughter clings to you, to protect her as well as your daughter.

You call out for her but your voice is weak and thin, a bare whisper gasped between shallow, panting breaths. You try to cough out the thickening smoke to clear your throat so you can suck in more air but can't draw deep enough breaths for your coughs to expel more than faint puffs. You tear at your dress, pulling at the buttons, your hands clawed and grasping awkwardly because the crowd is so densely packed that your elbows are pinned close to your body, at a bad angle to work the buttons. If you could release the damned corset fasteners you could breathe more deeply. Your daughter screams as her hair catches fire and you bat at it, begging, God help us!"