Arson (3 page)

 

Chapter 4

 

 

GRANDMA STORMED INTO ARSON'S bedroom with a fury. The sound of the door bashing into the wall disturbed him half to death. “Are you some kind of pervert?” she yelled, smacking his face with a newspaper. She must have heard him through the walls. “What's the matter with you, wretch? I raised you better.”

She laced each blow with sick pleasure, a mix of disdain and contempt. Arson wasn't sure which he was more afraid of: her eyes or the raw knuckles silencing all feeling within him. What had he done? For the longest time, Arson had believed it was normal. Other kids did it; what else could it be? They were just thoughts, after all. Thoughts he let turn into something more, something passionate. He liked the way they felt. The way he imagined a girl might touch him, kiss him, even love him, if ever they got close enough. It didn't feel wrong. He didn't ask for these thoughts; they just came, and he didn't know what to do with them. But the more Grandma screamed, the more she sank her harsh resolve into his skin, the more the thoughts began to abandon him. It had all been a mistake.

“I'm sorry,” he whimpered.

But she didn't seem to care. If only she'd listen to him.

She grabbed Arson by the head and struck him once again. “Those impure thoughts will send you straight to hell, you little demon.” Another blow sent bits of black ink and white paper falling to the floor like filthy snowflakes.

When he was younger, kids ridiculed him, as if he were some abnormal freak because he didn't do it. Didn't even really understand what 
it
 was for so long. Bragging school ground punks, with their pierced ears and ripped jean jackets, exiled him in the bus lines time and time again, played tricks on him.

He used to despise them for their violence and sick jokes. The last days before summer were the worst, with heat so thick teachers focused more on when the bell would ring than noticing the taunts and crimes of adolescent boys. If they didn't see it, it didn't matter. The tormenting culprits found little to fear in suspension anyway. To them, it was all just sport.

Arson hated how sheltered Grandma kept him, entombed in mere existence. She never had talks with him about his body, about the natural and 
unnatural
 changes. The thoughts. The fevers. The shakes, not quite cold or hot, just miserable. Arson often wondered if this happened because of his dreams. Angry dreams. But it was Grandma who constantly warned him against getting angry. That was unacceptable, and the result of such disobedience would bring devastating consequences. She threatened to leave him forever.

“I never thought you'd have the nerve to do something like that in your granddaddy's house,” Grandma said, spitting. “Arson Gable, you've shamed me. You've shamed your mother, God rest her soul. Look at you.” He did, staring down at the pants around his ankles. “Animals don't even do that, wretch.” Out of the dark came her hard knuckles, sinking into his belly, laced with fury and disgust.

“I'm…so…sorry, Gr—,” he sobbed.

Grandma threw the paper at him. “Not yet, but you will be. I bet you fornicate to those smut magazines as well. You probably do. Is that why you touch yourself? Because of that filth? Hiding them right under my nose, thinking I'll never find them.” She searched but found nothing.

Arson cowered underneath her shadow. So weak, rejected, ashamed, especially to the one who claimed to love him most.

“You ruined my paper. You know how I feel about my newspaper.”

“I'm s—”

“Don't interrupt me, pig.” She fixed her glasses, scanned the room, and disappeared momentarily. With a towel in her hand, Grandma returned to find Arson on his knees.

“Clean yourself up,” she demanded and threw him a rag. “You'll have to think about what you did.” Grandma left the room and shut the door. Arson could hear the key sliding into place and then twisting enough to lock him inside. Every click and turn sounded like mad voices, telling him of the punishment and separation to come. “You're just like your daddy,” he heard her whisper behind the door.

 

Chapter 5

 

 

THE DOOR WAS STILL locked when Arson woke up. Nervously, his hands shook and began to sweat. Hard to believe it had been two days. Hunger warned his body of its need to eat. 
It would be so easy
, Arson pondered, 
to melt the handle
. Burn everything, not just the room that held him prisoner, but the whole damned house.

“Are you awake, love?” Grandma asked.

At first Arson didn't know what to say. In fact, he didn't want to say anything. He wasn't awake or asleep, alive or dead. He was just there—captive, angry, dismayed. But still he answered, “I am now, Grandma.”

“Good. I hope you thought about what you've done, pig,” she seethed in a raspy voice.

“Yeah, Grandma, I have.”

“You sure? 'Cause I won't be having any more of that wicked behavior in this house, young man, not the house your granddaddy built.”

“I built it too,” he mumbled.

“Not after what you've done to make us move all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

His heart sank at her comments. The acid from his belly rose, burning the back of his throat, a pain he was accustomed to. “I know, Grandma. I'm sorry for what I did.” Arson shut his eyes. Being separated from her felt strangely sick.

“I wish I could erase you,” she said.

Slowly, the door cracked open. The unsettling whine of the splintered wood and rusted hinges scratched his eardrums as it let her in. Her face peered out from the darkness. Squinting, he stood defensively, chilled by her stare.

“Eat some breakfast before it gets cold,” she said, handing him a lukewarm plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. “It's not Wednesday, but I figured I'd make an exception.”

Arson reached for the plate in her hand while Grandma placed the drink on his dresser. “Now eat slowly, love. Wouldn't want you to choke.” She patted him on the back. “You know, it's not normal for you to go without food for days. Keep those wicked thoughts out of your mind, ya hear?”

Arson dipped his head in shame.

She gently rubbed the back of his neck. He cringed but couldn't bring himself to reject her. The blinds and tape that kept the light out stared with pleasure at him. How feeble and weak he was. He hated being their entertainment.

When he was finished eating, Grandma grabbed his plate and stood up. “Arson, the rules of this house are here for a reason. You must obey them. You must obey me, because I love you. I'm the only one who's 
ever
 loved you. The only one who can.”

Arson's eyes followed her down the stairs. The hummed melody of an old hymn rang through the air, a hymn he had never bothered to memorize.

He reached under his mattress and pulled out a comic book from the pile he'd collected over the years. The pages were thumbed through and worn, but he still got satisfaction from them, even if they were old and cliché. They were splintered fragments left behind from a long-lost childhood filled with heroes and villains facing impossible odds and uncertain futures, a black and white world in which there was no gray. Arson felt more a part of their reality than his own. The stories didn't seem to care who he was or what he could do; it didn't matter. In their world, he wasn't alone. In their world, a freak like them—like him—could become a hero.

 

* * *

 

Arson could feel the night wrap its fingers around him like smoke. As he raced outside, his face cracked from the heat, and his eyes began to burn. In order to ease the pain, he wet them, blinking rapidly when he could, when he wasn't running. Out of breath, but it didn't matter. Couldn't keep still. 
Run
, he thought. 
Run. Anywhere but here
!

The air cut through his teeth. Faster he moved, past the abandoned house on his left, through the field of neglected grass and waste. 
To the marshes
, he thought, 
away from Grandma, away from everything
. It was quiet there, quieter than the lake tonight. Quiet enough to think about what plagued him most, though he hated it.

His breaths were short and stifled by panic. His heart pounded and struggled to keep pace, pumping more heat than blood. He moaned, praying it would stop. But the anger only grew. Violent memories, only hours old, fueled the fire within, begging for release. His skin didn't burn, his body couldn't wilt, but the smell of rotting, bubbling flesh surrounded him, and he could taste its horrible flavor on his lips. Pimples on his face disintegrated and oozed down his cheek. Fireflies sparkled in front and behind him, and he was lost between. Leaves and branches crunched underfoot, and he listened for the sound of summer, of night, but all he heard were screeching tires and the shattering of broken glass somewhere in the distance. Perhaps a few fools had lost their lives in a head-on collision. 
Lucky
, Arson thought, clenching his fist tighter as he ran.

By the time he arrived, the veins in his wrists and hands had swelled blood red. Tears slipped down his face only to disappear. He was afraid. Something about the place caused the hairs on the back of his neck to move. Arson never made a habit of coming here, but he was desperate more than anything. He knew it was childish to think a place so calm could awaken such fright, but the dark was good at playing his fears back to him.

Enraged, he grabbed a jagged rock and threw it into the black, hoping it would split the veil of darkness, and then the sky would pity him. Bugs and moths swarmed around his head, seduced by the light from his body. Closer they came. He looked down, taking one wary step into the pool. The grime and soot covered his clothes and stained his hands. He wondered if the cold water could quench him tonight.

Arson then dipped his entire body into the pool and waited. Distracted by roaming fish and water snakes, he held his breath and clenched his eyelids tighter. Grandma stopped hitting him, but Arson knew that beneath the fabricated smiles and almost love, she still loathed him for what he'd done, for what he was. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was a monster, a demon, a pig. He wondered how one person could be responsible for so much madness and pain. He thought back again.

“It's only a dare,” Danny said.

“I believe you; I just don't want to do it. I don't like fire.”

“Name a hero who's afraid,” he heard him sneer.

Silence.

“I dare you, chicken. You'll never be a hero if you're always scared.”

“I hate fire,” Arson whispered under the current. “I hate what I am.”

Danny's words played out in slow motion, spinning amidst chaos and the boom of future horror. “All you have to do is light this piece of junk and chuck it as far as your wimpy arm can throw. It's going to be so cool! You'll see.”

Fear moved across their faces, and everything went still, waiting for the world, asking God to step in and save him from what he was about to do. But there was nothing, no one to change it. There it was in Danny's palm before he handed it over. It was the key to her salvation. Perhaps clearer in reverse, clearer than even that night.

It had moved to his hand now. Nothing would work. Nothing but the fire inside his bones. Frantic and nervous, Arson recalled the anger, the frustration pumping through him, the lack of control that lit his hand. In a blink, it danced across his fingers and disappeared. What seemed like fragments of time was enough to change his world forever. He gasped, and then he saw her face.

Breathe.

No. Not yet.

Breathe
.

Arson cried, fighting to be still but knowing this pain was unquenchable. He had to breathe to let it out. In a choking rage, he extended his hands and feet and felt the waters boil. The creatures underneath him and all around him began to die, floating to the surface. He glowed and burned and hated every second of it.

Arson waited for it to end. His senses fought to return to the surface, back to solid ground, the familiar. Swallowing the filth, he shook and swore, breaking to the surface wild and furious. Arson didn't want to commit suicide; he just wanted to die.

 

Chapter 6

 

 

ARSON WAS RELUCTANT TO walk into work the next morning. From the second he stepped in, his boss seemed bent on proving a point. The point was simple: time off without the proper notice was reason enough to fire him on the spot, but being the merciful boss that he was, he'd allow Arson to stay on. Punishment began with scrubbing the bathroom floors.

His name was Ray, but nicknames like Murder Breath and Hitler were used frequently. The truth was, he acted as a better dictator than socialite; deep down, he was a terrible human being. His bald spot betrayed him on windy afternoons and on what 
he
 considered bad hair days. The awkward square glasses framed an unattractive face. Whiteheads soured his appearance, covering his pale-fleshed cheeks and nose. Large, chapped lips accentuated an already helpless mug. Not to mention, dandruff always littered his collar. What kept Arson and the other employees distant, however, was far worse than bad breath or a hideous composure. Ray smelled. He rarely, if ever, wore deodorant and didn't believe in cologne. Nevertheless, Ray thought that he walked on air. Because his brother owned the ice cream parlor, he took it upon himself to be the world's easiest person to despise. And he enjoyed it too.

“I want the entire stockroom emptied and shelved,” Ray demanded after Arson put away the mop. The invisible, murderous mist of Ray's breath invoked obedience. His boss glanced down at his clipboard, checking off the list Arson assumed was created during his back room hours, which, according to Chelsea, his co-worker, Ray spent cruising adult Web sites. “After that, I want you to mix another batch of Chocolate Crunch; we're running low, and those mothers can turn into vampires when little Susie doesn't get the flavor she wants.”

“Is that all?” Arson said with an overwhelmed sigh.

Ray grinned. “That's nothing, kid. Get started on the boxes.” Ray handed him the razor. “Come see me when you're done. I'll be in the back.”

“Enjoy the show,” Arson groaned while Ray started to walk away. Then he came back.

“What was that? You have something else to say?” He got up close. “No one likes a wise guy,” he said, smacking his lips with gum that did little to subdue the wasteland it swam in. After the stare-down, Ray retreated into the back room, slamming the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon drifted. Ray's retribution seemed cruel, considering Arson's co-workers checked text messages while he stacked sugar cones and birthday items customers rarely purchased. After making ice cream, Arson washed the windows. Although not wanting to complain, he thought enough was enough. With every stroke, he mouthed a silent insult. It was then that he caught a glimpse of Mandy's radiant reflection in the glass.

“They've got you washing windows now?” said Venus in all her majesty, a glint in her eye. She came alone this time.

Arson fumbled for words.

“How's it going, Arson?”

“Yeah,” he tried, knowing he must've looked hopeless and pathetic. “I mean, okay. Murder Breath, my boss, loves to torture me. He's kind of a head case.” Arson stepped off the ladder so he could look into her crystal eyes.

“I've seen him once or twice, I think. He's the one with the—”

“Bald spot? BO? Murderous breath?”

“I was gonna say stain on his shirt,” she said, chuckling. Mandy stuck her hand in front of her mouth and exhaled. “But I hope my breath's okay.”

“I'm sure it's perfect,” Arson said.

They shared a laugh before his eyes fell to her feet. “Nice shoes,” he said out of desperation. He had nothing else. What could he talk about? They existed in different worlds. She was too perfect to even be seen with him. It didn't make sense, but Arson could settle for anomalies wrapped in beautiful blonde paper over rejection any day.

Mandy blinked, and he caught a glimpse of the light blue eye shadow painted against her lids. “Thanks,” she replied, almost brushing it off entirely. “Most of the time people don't notice my shoes. Guys, I mean. So, I'm curious now, Arson. Just how mean is this boss of yours?”

“It would take way too long to go into it.”

“Sounds like a total drag.”

“Yeah. So, um, what are you doing here?” Arson said, fumbling over his words. “Not that I don't like your…company, it's just this is, like, your third time in a week. You must really like ice cream.”

Mandy squinted and smiled. “I was just in the area. I mean, this place is right on Main Street. Hard to miss if you're driving by. Anyways, something's been bugging me.”

The wind stirred, tossing her golden layers toward the center of her face. He swore they were made of rays of sunlight.

“Really? What is it?”

She took a moment to ask. “Is it true?”

“The ambiguity isn't really helping. What are you talking about?”

Mandy whispered, “Is it true you start fires?”

Arson froze, suddenly avoiding eye contact altogether. It made perfect sense now—the unexpected visits, the flirting, that mesmerizing smile. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Well, rumor has it, Jason saw you melt a ton of ice cream a few nights ago. Does every employee melt a batch or two before cleanup? Why would you do that, Arson?”

“I wouldn't,” Arson bit back.

“It's a simple question. What's the big deal? It's not like I'm gonna go running to the Feds.”

He bit his lip hard and swallowed. “It's ridiculous. I don't even like fire. Anyways, Jason and Chelsea love to make up stories. They find some kind of sick pleasure in screwing with me.” He faked a bashful smile, hands starting to sweat.

“Don't be such a martyr. It's not a bad thing. You like to play with fire. It's actually kind of sexy.”

Arson shuffled his feet.

Breaking the awkward tension, Mandy jumped to a softer subject. “So what's the best flavor to try today?”

He was glad she stopped prying, but in the back of his mind, he wondered how long he'd be able to keep his secret from her. He didn't like the feeling of someone looking deeply into him like that, like some kind of specimen. With a sigh, Arson led Mandy inside. The place was dead. “I'd suggest the Chocolate Crunch,” he said.

“Sounds like a good choice,” Mandy replied plainly. “I'll give it a try.”

Arson went behind the counter and scooped two chunks of ice cream into a cone and handed it to her.

She accepted it, eyeing him from where she stood. “Thanks.”

“Come back down to earth, you sappy twerp.” Chelsea always had a way with words. She began typing numbers into the register and coughed with an open hand extended toward Mandy.

The blonde goddess reached into her pockets and searched for spare change, but her hands emerged empty. “Oh my gosh. I can't believe it. Forgot my wallet.” She looked at Arson. “Do you think you can let this one slide? I'll pay you back.”

“No, you won't,” Chelsea quipped angrily. “Do you stroll into the mall without any cash and hope they'll let you walk out with a nice pair of jeans? You can't just walk into a store broke and expect free ice cream. I'm getting my manager.”

Arson stopped her. “Wait a second. What are you doing?”

“Please don't tell me you're buying into her story. We both know she's got it.”

“C'mon, Chelsea. Ray's been on my case all day. Let this one slide, okay? I swear I'll put the money in the register at the end of my shift, make sure everything evens out.”

“Guys are so weak. Whatever.” Chelsea's face was over-smudged with makeup, but it wasn't enough to hide her disgust. She moved to the other side of the counter and started washing tables in order to look busy.

“Impressive,” Mandy said. “You're quite the talker.”

“Oh, that's me, a smooth criminal.”

“Thank you, Arson. I owe you one,” she said with a wink.