Published in Volume 13 of the Cosumnes River Journal, May 2019
Sacramento, California
My
eyes are roaring flames, dancing and flitting around my surroundings. I don’t
fit in
here with my tangled hair and unflattering tracksuit, which displays the
creases of the loose
skin hanging around my stomach as a result of my pregnancy. I know it’s there
for a reason.
It’s there to remind me of what I did.
I’m
slouched on a stool by the bar, glancing half-heartedly at the several empty glasses
that are gathered around me. I trace my finger in and out of the grooves on the wooden
surface, allowing my thoughts to drift. The beer has risen to my head. I told
myself not
to do this tonight.
“Can
I get you another?” the lively barman asks me, grabbing the pint glasses, clinking
them in unison. He already hovers near a clean glass because he knows what my answer
will be. It won’t be any different from the countless times he’s asked me
before. I nod
and mumble something under my breath, fumbling in my pocket and pulling out a crumpled
fiver.
I
can’t help but stare at them. I should be sitting there, soaking up every inch
of his caramel
skin, breathing in his musky scent. I bought him that crisp, white shirt and
that patterned
tie. I was his everything - but now, everything is gone. I can’t let him see
me. He warned
me last time he would ring the police if this happened again. I promised, but I
was crossing
my fingers. I won’t leave him alone until I finish what I came to do.
I
wrap my fingers around the fresh pint with such great force that froth spills
over the edge
and trickles between my fingers. There’s a shuffle of chairs and he helps her
put on her jacket.
Her butter-gold blouse brushes softly against his chest. She tosses her honey-coloured
hair behind her shoulder, the tinkles of her giggles ringing in my ears. This
is my chance;
I have to take it. They head to the car park as I follow behind them,
possessing what can
only be classed as a sickening sense of excitement, my beer abandoned and
waiting to surprise
the barman. I lurk in the shadows, watching Christian swing his car keys
between his fingertips
and the lady totter in her patent heels, waiting for the slam of his navy BMW
doors.
Despite
being close to eleven at night, the temperature at the peak of June doesn’t fail to
demonstrate its presence. The remnants of a muggy, unbearable heat lingers in
the air, and along
with the sour taste of beer in my mouth, I feel clammy and frustrated. I hear
the rev of Christian’s
engine - he always was a show off, after all - and the car purrs out of the
pub.
I
trail behind his car down an everlasting road, and one I don’t recognise. My
head pounds.
Several times, my vision becomes nothing more than a series of blurs, and the
car swerves
abruptly until I jerk the steering wheel back in control. I’ve always had a
problem with
alcohol. It’s why Christian divorced me. It’s how I lost my baby.
A
few miles later, I see the warm glow of his rear lights vanish into a turning.
I slow down
and gradually make my way up the road, using a weakly-flickering lantern
outside the property
to guide me and, sure enough, the navy BMW is there – in prime position.
Hastily,
I open the glove box. I rummage in a chaotic mess of empty pill bottles and prescriptions
and rusting coins before I find what I’m looking for. I open the car door, inch by
inch, and leave it open - it would make too much noise to shut it. If I’m seen,
everything is
over. I creep towards the BMW, twisting the cap of my tin of lighter fluid,
and, using my other
hand, slide open my matchbox, staring at the three single matches with dissatisfaction.
I’ll have to sacrifice my midnight cigarette.
I
have one chance to get this right - one chance to get my revenge. He left me
when I needed
him most. What’s more, he blamed it on me. My drinking and my smoking killed our
baby, he told me.
To
my delight, the backseat window is open slightly, and although I’m immersed in complete
darkness, I gently tilt the tin’s nozzle into the car, feeling the weight of it decreasing
as its contents soak the interior. I swipe the chosen match against the
matchbox and
an amber flame sparks immediately, curling around the wood, devouring it.
Without a second
thought, I toss it into the car, running towards the safety of my own. I crouch
down, feeling
the heat of the roaring flame against my skin.
A
minute later, the fire is high in the air, licking up any remains. The front
door swings
open and Christian sprints out, shouting expletives that are silenced by the
crackling of
the raging fire. I notice the devastated look overcome his face as he watches
his beloved BMW
burning to pieces. I soak up every moment of his priceless despair. He realises
how it feels
to lose something you love.
I’m
expecting his lady lover to run after him, but there’s no sign of Bambi-eyes. I think
he realises this at the same time as I do, because his gaze turns hollow and
meaningless. Then,
I see it. Among the wreckage, I see a charred hand lying on the gravel.
Stunning piece
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