By Sawyer Johnson
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“Why?
Why did you do it? And don't pretend like you didn't,” the pigface said as he
slouched forward.
Of
course I stayed silent. It was my right wasn't it? I just sat back in the chair
in a relaxed position, staring at him as though nothing was going on in my
head.
“The
motel, why were you there?” he asked.
Again,
I stayed silent. I had to open my mouth a bit to breathe because I couldn't
stand the smell of him. He reeked of cigarettes, shitty cologne, and whiskey.
His unshaven face and bloodshot eyes just showed how tired he was, weak-willed,
too. We’d been in there for hours already. I didn't plan on cracking.
“How
did you do it? Flames got pretty big, Rickie. Do you use any accelerants? Gas,
lighter fluid? Hell, with the amount of damage I can only assume you used
fucking napalm. Killed three people. How did you do it, Rickie?” He showed
barely any emotion as he spoke. Only thing that tipped me to his frustration
was the glint in the back of his eyes.
I
closed my eyes and thought back, smiling to myself. A match, something small,
fragile, and lightweight. Something so simple but so powerful that it can set
someone's world ablaze. I remembered ash falling down like snow in the parking
lot of that motel on 87. Women shrieking and children crying as they sprinted
away with perfectly deformed faces. Our gift to them. That day in June a match
gave me an inner light that I never thought I had. Joy. It was so simple,
thinking about the scratch against the box sends chills down my spine, even
now. Skin raising with goosebumps.
“Fine
then, don’t talk. It's clear that you’re reminiscing about what you’ve done. I’ll
go ahead and recall that night for you. Maybe get you talking.” He leaned back
in his seat.
He
started flapping his fat fucking mouth again, but I ignored him. Lost in the
memories. The smell of sulfur dioxide from the lit match was still trapped in
my nose. My gaze locked onto him as I started to smile. The sight of the
inferno, the sounds of the sirens, the screaming, and that wonderful smell
filling the air. All burned into my memory. I am proud of our work. All of the
destruction and a few lost lives, they were all worth it. It’s too bad it
wouldn’t last. If only I could have stayed there in that moment to watch
forever.
“Nothing?
Still?”
Finally,
my silence got him to crack. He got up and stormed out the door. My eyes closed
while I watched the images pass.
In
my mind I was back outside of the motel. Flames licking clouds. A dozen cops
surround the place. I’d put my hands above my head as they approached. I was
finally in the spotlight for once in my life, and it felt great. Once the
images passed, I was brough back into reality.
The
cop returned with two others to haul me out. I went peacefully; I was never one
for fighting. The months that followed were quick to pass. Convicted of triple
homicide and arson of the first degree, they sentenced me to the most that the
law could toss at me. They said I premeditated this shit. No. They have no idea
what the fuck they are talking about. That kind of chaos can only happen
spontaneously. At least in my mind.
Time
passed fast after the trial. I was in the box for months that went in a blink
of an eye. I could still see that inferno when I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t
help but smile. The doc here wondered if any of this was just a symptom of a
bad childhood. He also seemed to be the only one interested in my case. The
visits to his office were always interesting.
“What
do you think about your childhood? Your parents seemed like lovely people,” he
would say.
“Oh,
ya know, it was alright, Doc. My parents did okay. They never hit us or
anything,” I would reply
“Care
to explain further?”
I've
always been a troubled kid, never had many friends, parents weren't around as
much as they could have been, I always kept to myself. A silent bystander even
in my own life. Looking back, it's sad, really. My school career was too easy.
I made good enough grades to keep the teachers and my dad happy, but low enough
not to stand out. Good grades bring the bad kinds of attention from the worst
kinds of people. Learned that the hard way.
“It
was good.”
“Did
you ever have any activities you enjoyed?” he asked as he took a short
note.
Thinking
back even more, I never did much for the summer or even on holidays. The family
gatherings were always mind numbing. The only thing I looked forward to each
year was June 15th, the family reunion. Ironic, I know. The entire thing would
make your tongue numb, bland like a saltine, dry as a desert. The one saving
grace was the huge fire we had going from sunrise to sunset. I never let that
flame escape my vision, only going to the restroom during lunch and dinner.
Only then would I have a title, granted by my goblinoid cousins, FireKeeper.
Self-tasked with keeping the embers alive, feeding them timber until the flames
leapt so high, god himself would tremble. I felt like a god, breathing life
into something so amazing.
“Nope,
not one thing. I was a boring kid, Doc,” I replied.
“Well, there must be something. You hesitate on every one of your answers, Mr.
Selder. You clearly remember things, and you seem to have something behind that
mask you wear. The only way for you to grow is if you actually participate here
and with other inmates. You can't possibly stay alone here. It isn't
healthy.”
“I'm just remembering the smell of the fire, the people's faces, and how
priceless they were.”
“Your statements intrigue me. I hope you open up in these meetings. I am not an
enemy. Everything here is one hundred percent confidential. Sadly, I'm out of
time. See you at the same time next week. Please consider my offer for the
group therapy. You could really benefit,” he would say before I was sent back
to my cozy little box in the corner.
We
are far from the inferno now. A God of Fire, now a bland mundane man from
Jersey named Rickie. Permanently trapped in a drab white room that smelled like
a gym locker room that had sex with a gas station bathroom. I'm grateful for
the wonder this tiny match has brought me, though. I've found a passion. If I
get out, no, when I get out, I hope we will meet again. One day to hear the
scratch against your container. One day to smell that lovely smell as a flame
is born on the top of your head. One day to set the world ablaze, to show
everyone how beautiful we truly are.
About the Author
Sawyer Johnson is a
26-year-old student at Illinois Central College. He is a writer who enjoys
writing silly and strange pieces of writing and reading equally strange
stories.