A wisp of blue-grey smoke seeps from the barrel of the discharged pistol. There are no rules, only a picture framed by the ethereal trails of violence. Relaxed, released, my mind wanders...
...Thirsty.
Stand. Knees shake impossibly. If I make it to the sink I can fill a glass of water. I do, but I gag on it as dry heaves wrack my body. Second time around I think I get some down my throat and smile proudly. Above the sink there's a window and beyond it are plum trees all in bloom. My eyes focus on the little flowers as I set the used glass on the counter.
I'm hungry now, so I start rummaging in the Frigidaire and the cupboards. Blood is pooling underfoot quickly, making an ever-widening, rouge mirror on the kitchen floor - I have to be careful as I step around. Wouldn't want to track it all over the house.
"I need a shopping list." The incising thought almost startles me. I grab a paper from the note pad hung from the refrigerator door and begin scrawling.
"Aisle 17. Thats where all the canned foods are." I like the red-headed stock-girl's freckles. I try not to stare at her breasts as she points to the aisle.
"Thanks." I cough. I never was good with women.
Canned peas, canned carrots, canned black olives, canned tuna, canned tomatoes. A long aisle, but I found what I needed. An item I used to hate, but now could enjoy, guilt-free. Sometimes thinking of this whole brand new world makes me feel like I'm over-swelling with joy and that my heart is filled with tiny little electrical shocks of happiness.
"Make some noise for me, boy." There's a whimper and another, but the sound of flesh hitting flesh almost drowns everything else out.
"Excuse me, are you ok?" A beautiful face floats inches from my own, as if coming from behind a fog. "You dropped this." Her outstretched hand holds my can; her skin is porcelain and I can barely see blood vessels beneath it.
"I guess I got carried away thinking, huh?" I think I smiled sheepishly.
"You're Ethan Sald. The author." Her eyes were a little wider. "Don't worry, I won't be tacky and ask for an autograph."
"Thanks..." I am short of words.
"What are you doing here?" She looked genuinely puzzled.
I wasn't sure what she meant at first. "Oh...Yeah, I grew up here. My hometown, ha ha. I came back to take care of my father. He is very ill."
Compassion, sympathy, "Oh, I'm so sorry." Her eyes looked like they were shimmering a little.
The drinks go down easily and in near-copious amounts as I laugh and smile and charm. She makes me forget and I want to take her home because I deserve her. I tell her we can leave the bar for a better place and she giggles, flashing those deep eyes. It feels like we were never at the bar as we drive in the midnight air. Its a brief drive and I nearly fall from the vehicle when its parked in the driveway. I walk to the front door of my beautiful tudor and fumble with keys a moment before I remember...
"Oh, shit. I don't have the house key." I'm good at making up retarded shit. "I think we should go to your place.
She's a sport. Way drunk, she starts a snortling laughter and turns around toward the car, nearly falling on her inebriated butt.
I wake up totally confused. She's next to me, which means I'm probably in her house. She snores lightly as I sneak out of the bed and begin a search for my clothes. Dressed, I begin a new search for a viable exit. I can't get her face out of my mind as I jog down the street, away from her home. She made me feel clean again. Where am I going, anyway?
When I reach my house, I'm a little confused. Why did I come back? I might as well set the fucking place on fire. Let the flames clean out the dead. The idea was seductive and I got drunker on it, until it became attractive. I needed to cut dad into tiny little pieces first. Snack-sized bites for the fire to consume easily. I gathered tools and went to work. As I hacked at his body with the saws and mallets and sharp edges his draining blood splattered my face...A sickly sensation like that of the old man's sweat dripping on my face all those nights.
A huge pile of papers, wood furniture, clothing and toilet paper stands in the middle of the living room. I've gathered enough fuel for my fire and stand ready to set it burning. This has to look like an accident. I laugh inside my head like a madman as I light the cigarette in my mouth and drop the match. Some rags from the garage immediately catch fire, starting the small blaze that would consume my home and burn it to the ground, leaving only charred and black crumbs. As the mound of crap burns healthily, I toss pieces of dad-meat into it. I watch the chunks sizzle and nearly jump as they pop in the hot, yellow flames. The flames are growing hotter and taller, which only transfixes me. I do nothing as the mound shifts, bringing the fire down on me. I shift strangely and fall, sending up sparkling embers in an amber and orange bouquet around me. I want to scream at the heat stabbing into my body as it hits the floor. Tendrils of pain entwine my body and squeeze. Adreneline floods my blood vessels, triggering muscles - I wrestle with the floor and pull away from the flames. I don't exactly stand, however I manage to right myself and stumble hurriedly out of the burning house. Orange heat washes the side of my face as I stand in the driveway. My knees give and I crumple.
I know I'm in a hospital when my eyes start to open tentatively. Everything's nearly white. My arm is swathed in gauze, as is a little bit of my head. There's dull pain beneath the criss-cross cloth and I can see they're running fluids into me - some of it painkillers of the strongest variety. I feel queazy slash woozy. I was panicked and sad at the same time. I had no idea what happened - to the house, to my father's remains, any of it. For all I knew, the police could be standing outside my room, waiting for me to recover just enough to be dragged to a jail cell. I wouldn't let them take me, though. I'd grab their guns and get my self shot to death before I would spend any time in prison on behalf of my son of a bitch father. My thoughts are exhausting and quicker than I can measure I feel myself drift back into sleep.
She is looking down on me when I wake again. Her eyes stab me through with concern. Understanding my discomfort, she speaks before I can move my pained lips. My house had burned to the ground and the evening news had captured a portion of the event on video. She watched and learned I'd been found in my driveway and rushed to the hospital for care of injuries. After calling around, she finally found me at this hospital and came. I was near crying when she finished speaking. She saw the redness in my eyes and began soothing me. As she did, I told her I needed to speak to her about things I told nobody. What I did only made sense in hell, but I told her everything. I needed to tell her, no matter what she thought of me afterward. When I was done with my story I just looked in her eyes. Her stare did not waiver, nor did she look away one moment.
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