Darker Shades of Fear

(Installment 18)

 

Today's on fire
The sky is bleeding above me, and I am blistered
I walk these lines of blasphemy, every day
And still:
Like a bad star, I'm falling faster down to her
She's the only one who knows, what it is to burn

 

***

 

 

Kenny stared up at the motel ceiling that he had thoroughly memorized by this point in time.  He knew it better than he knew himself, he thought, which was sincerely pathetic.  He took a slow drag on his cigarette and sighed, watching the smoke weave itself into the air.

She hadn’t said anything yet, which kind of bothered him.  He’d expected her to at least make a comment about the sex, let alone the general shitty-ness of the room.  Instead, she just rested there, eyes open and a sort of serene look on her face.  He was so accustomed to women opening the post-sex discussion, which he could easily twist into an excuse to leave, but she showed no desire to talk.  Neither did he, really.  It just felt very different.  Though he didn’t specifically recall her, he definitely got the feeling that he’d known her for a significant time, which was probably what made this as odd as it was. 

When he could take the silence no longer, he finally swallowed his pride and spoke.  

“Sorry if it wasn’t exactly what you expected.” He said, observing the condition of the motel in which he stayed.  Bottles of alcohol still littered the floor from his attempted setting of a new hangover world record, contributing to the overall dilapidated theme.  He really didn’t know what else to say… after all, she’d probably planned the event in her head a billion times over and none of those scenarios probably took place in conditions remotely similar to the present.  It felt sort of funny, because nobody ever had previous expectations for him. 

She laughed, “You defy all expectations.”

“Really?” He asked, turning his head.

She nodded.  “Oh yeah.”

“You should have said so.”

“I didn’t exactly know what to say.”

He entertained the thousand and one horribly perverted responses he could use in reply to her statement, but decided against them.

“Well, what did you want me to say?” She asked, more playfully than serious.

“I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “a ‘that was fun’ would suffice.”

She laughed, “You’ve got a big enough ego as it is, Ken, I don’t think you need me to inflate it for you.”

He looked at her, wondering whether or not the innuendo had been intended.  It had.  “Why not?  I need my ego stroked every now and then.” He replied, grinning.

She covered her mouth in an attempt to stifle the fit of laughter his comment had just brought on.  He laughed with her, finding humor in his own joke or just simply enjoying Leah’s company.

“You’re too funny, Ken.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

“For what?”

“The best night of my life.”

“You mean the best sex of your life.”

“No,” she said, “I mean the best night of my life.  Ever.  Past lives included.”

“You must not get out much.” Kenny said, half jokingly.

“I get out plenty, thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.” He obliged.

She sighed with a smile, “What am I gonna do with you, Ken?”

“Whatever you want.” He replied in a seductive tone, however his eyes said that he was only playing.

 She laughed.  “Oh I can think of a few things…” She countered.

He laughed, “Oh really?  Like what?”

She sat up, and in one impossibly swift movement, straddled his hips, “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” She said, kissing him.

Kenny just smiled to himself.  He liked this game.

 

There was something about her that was different.  She wasn’t anything extraordinary in the sex department, she was pretty, but he’d had prettier.  What set her apart, however, was that she didn’t ask questions.  He was infinitely grateful for that.  She knew the answers to the questions that he didn’t, but everyone always insisted on asking anyway. 

Where are you from?

How old are you?

Where did you go to school?

Where did you grow up?

Who were your parents?

All of those incredibly annoying questions without any sort of relevance whatsoever.  She didn’t need to ask, because she knew.  That was probably why he found himself able to tolerate her for so long.  She hadn’t really asked him anything personal, he realized, upon further investigation.  No questions about what he’d been doing since they’d last seen each other, no mention of what he did for a living or why he lived the way he did.  Maybe, he figured, it didn’t matter to her.  Perhaps she was simply content to be in his presence for a while. 

That, he found, was the most difficult concept to grasp.  He was no good for anything, with the exception of screwing.  That, and his uncanny ability to commit crimes and frame others without leaving so much of a trace of his guilt behind.  He sighed at the pitiful evaluation of his existence.

“You okay?” She asked.

He snapped back into reality, “Yeah.  I’m fine.  Just thinking.” He replied, taking a drag on his cigarette

She nodded in understanding.

“What about you?  You okay?”

“I, am wonderful.” She said, exhaling in a long, relaxed breath.

He smiled at this.  “So…” he began, for lack of a better way to restart the conversation.

She sighed, shaking her head.

“What?”

“No, nothing.  It’s just… you know, I never really thought this would happen.  I mean, I always wanted it to and I’m really, really happy that it did… but I’m just thinking where do I go from here, you know?”

Kenny laughed.  “So you’re saying that the high point of your life was fucking me?”

She thought a moment, “…Yeah, basically.”

“Why?” He asked.

“Oh, I don’t know…” she sighed, “you ever get that feeling, like when you look at something, that you just want to explode inside?   It’s like, if you don’t get it, you’re going to tear apart.  Something so beautiful… so fucking perfect… and you know you don’t deserve it, but you need it.  From the second after you acknowledge it you spend your whole life with this void, thinking that other things will fill it, but it’s always there, up until the moment you finally get it or give up.”

Kenny’s cigarette continued to burn between his fingers, but he was unaware that he was wasting it.

“That’s what I get when I look at you.”

“So… you think I’m beautiful?”

“Yeah.”

Kenny almost laughed, but instead he shook his head with a disbelieving smile.

“What?”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”  He mused aloud.  “And you’re sure we never dated in high school?”

“Positive.” She replied.

“I must have been a fucking idiot.”

She laughed, “No, you weren’t.”

“Who in their right mind would turn you down?” He asked, frustrated at himself for doing so.  Maybe his life wouldn’t have been perfect, but he probably would have been much happier for what it was worth.  Just another perfect example of how he could fuck even the most foolproof of plans.

“You never turned me down,” she reminded, “you left before I could ask.  You weren’t an asshole or anything.  It would’ve been worse if we had gotten together.  When you left, I probably would have hated you, and this would never have happened.”

“If we’d gotten together, maybe I wouldn’t have run away.” He said, almost as if stating a fact.

She shook her head.  “No.  It was inevitable.  You had to.”

“Why the hell did I run away?” He asked, unable to comprehend his own logic or hers.

“Trust me, Ken, you had perfectly good reason.” She replied, shifting awkwardly.

“I can’t imagine what.”

“It’s best that you don’t.”  She sighed, climbing out of bed and quickly dressing herself. 

Kenny didn’t bother to protest, knowing full well that he could offer nothing to persuade her into staying.  He felt very much like a teenager who’d just killed the moment, which in essence, he sort of was.  He watched her scribble something on a torn piece of paper before turning back to him.

“If you ever need anything… just come find me.” She said, leaving it on the dresser.

Kenny nodded and just watched as she saw herself out.  He sighed for a long moment, thinking of nothing in particular.  The room, for some reason, seemed much bigger now.  It had much more space than he could have sworn it did.  He was so insignificant in comparison.  It had been a long time since he’d had company… or real company, anyway.  Sure, he talked to people until they pissed him off, bored him, or just got annoying, but through it all he was still alone as far as reality went.  He felt that loneliness now, losing himself among the seemingly infinite space of the colossal motel room.  It was almost completely overwhelming, but then again, it was also extraordinarily underwhelming at the same time.  He struggled to remember a time when things had made sense, but soon conceded, as there was really nothing he could conjure up from the banks of memory to substantiate his claim.  He tried to let his mind wander, but found that it had no place to go.

 

This frustrating incandescence was broken as the forgotten cigarette in his hand made itself known, the paper finally burning down to the filter between his fingers and in turn, burning them.

“Ah, fuck!” He shouted, gasping sharply at the burning sensation.  He flicked the filter to the floor before getting up and heading for the bathroom.  The cold sink water felt good against the burned skin.  It wasn’t any type of serious, but it was far from pleasant.

It still hurt when he turned the sink off and returned to bed, but he didn’t have the patience to wait any longer.  He struggled to ignore it, but the burn refused to go unacknowledged.  He lolled his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes as he exhaled.  The feeling seemed to spread painfully from his burned fingers, downward and all across his palm.  Immediately, he clenched the searing hand in a tight fist, almost wincing in pain.  Nothing had happened to it, so why did his entire hand feel like it was on fire?

Eyes still squeezed shut in pain, white consumed his vision, and he found himself again lost in the realm of what he could only assume was memory. 

          

He wanted to run.  He wanted to hide, to cry, to scream, to die, to anything but stay.  He knew by now that something bad was going to happen, but panic had him rooted in place.  At the age of seven, he couldn’t have escaped the painful grip on his wrist anyway.

“Please, let me go…” he begged.

“Why?  Whadda you gotta do that’s so damn important?!” Asked the older man who held him both literally and figuratively prisoner through slurred speech.

“I – I, I’m sorry – I just, wanted to – ”

“You wanted to what?!  Go play?!” He sneered.

The young boy nodded, his blue eyes screaming with fear.

“You want to play?  You want to go play while mommy and daddy work their asses off to make welfare – because of YOU?!”

Terror seized the boy, lost for options and words.  “I – I don’t know?”

SMACK

“You little bastard.  This is all your fucking fault.  ALL of it!  You see this shithole we live in?!  That’s because you came along and destroyed my life!” He screamed, holding the boy’s wrist so tightly it began to turn a disturbing shade of purple.

“Daddy…” he cried, on the verge of sobs, “please, my hand hurts.”

“Your hand hurts?” He asked, finally looking at the mentioned limb.  “That’s not hurt!  THIS is hurt!” The man screamed, pressing the boy’s palm against the hot surface of the old stove’s griddle.

The boy screamed in agony, sobbing hysterically at the new, terrible pain consuming his hand.  It was only seconds, but to the seven-year-old blond haired boy, it had been an eternity of hell.    

 

When consciousness returned to him, he found himself still clenching his fists and noticed that he was shaking a bit.  He opened his eyes slowly, allowing his body to relax a little at a time.  The dream had failed to disturb him.  His present concern was that he had fallen asleep.

Kenny never slept.  Sleep, he had decided, was pointless and accomplished nothing.  Sleeping made you tired.  It established routine.  He wondered, with no small sense of worry, why he’d all of a sudden decided to do so.

He noticed the burn on his fingers and decided that the physical demands of the wound had something to do with it, as well as the intense dream sequence.  That was all it had to be.  Just a dream.  Nothing but another stage in the sleep cycle, pictures caused by rapid eye movement.  The more realistic, sarcastic part of his mind told it was a memory, but he refused to accept the idea. 

But if it wasn’t a memory, why did it feel so familiar?

There was no evidence of trauma to his hand.  This thought assured him for a brief moment – until, of course, the other, more submissive yet ever present inquisitive nagging that could not rest until everything had been sorted out reminded him that the event would have occurred some twenty years ago.

He sighed, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his eyes.  He was at a loss for actions and options.

Perhaps it was Leah.  Maybe she’d brought out the subconscious memories he’d gladly forgotten.  Well, he needed some kind of a target to focus the blame on.  He hadn’t been drunk; he hadn’t even taken a fucking aspirin so he most definitely couldn’t have brought it on himself. 

Well, whatever, he thought as he headed for the shower.  It didn’t matter anyway.  Whatever it was, it had happened in the past – if at all.  It was over and done with and by the laws of nature could not be repeated, so why waste time thinking about it at all?

The warm water felt good against his skin.  Not that he would admit it, but part of him wondered why he felt no emotional attachment to the memory.  It had been so strong, so vivid – almost as if it were unfolding for the first time, and he felt no connection to it.  Either he’d known it too well or it hadn’t really been significant.  Maybe, it was both.

 

By the time he hit the streets, he’d already forgotten whatever memory had previously emerged.

 

 

 

 

 

 

©Danielle Lovallo, 2004             

Lyrics © Finch, “What It Is to Burn”