15. Dazed In A Blaze
Chapter fifteen
Dazed In A Blaze
Haze
A maelstrom of anger and despair rage inside me, consuming my heart as surely as the liquor scorches my throat. I pour another glass of scotch, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim as my hands tremble. The burner on the stove remains lit, forgotten in my emotional storm.
I can't control the mass of emotion roiling through me. The realization strikes like a lightning bolt, sending shockwaves of panic through my system. For the first time since losing my family, I'm utterly helpless against the onslaught of my own emotions. They crest and crash over me, a tidal wave of anguish threatening to pull me under.
I could lose everything if I can't get my shit together. The business my brother's family relies on, everything my father built that he trusts me to run. The team I've worked so hard to buy in honor of my son, who should have had his time to shine on the court.
The glass slips from my grasp, shattering on the floor. Shards embed themselves in my palm as I reach down, my blood mingling with the spilled scotch. The pain barely registers through the haze of alcohol and despair. Fury rises, white-hot and blinding. With a roar, I hurl the bottle at the stove. It explodes in a burst of flames, the inferno quickly spreading, devouring everything in its path.
I stand and stare at the flames climbing over the countertops, caressing the bottom of the walnut cupboards. A grin spreads across my face as I begin laughing. It's apropos, is it not? This house, the perfect metaphor, the carefully constructed life I built with Sal, going up in flames in front of my eyes?
I can't stop staring at them, electric blue, orange, and yellow, caressing the house like a lover with infinite tenderness. The patterns that dance across the wood are as mesmerizing as the secrets that whisper in the hiss of fire. Pure raw hunger, not bound by morality or societal constraints, sizzles and sears the truth across my soul in a script I cannot ignore.
I don't notice the smoke until I lose sight of the flames. Racked by coughing, my vision blurring with stinging tears, I realize the fire has spread. Far quicker than my alcohol-infused thoughts can move, the blaze has entered the living room, reaching for the next level of the house. Through the rapidly thickening wall of smoke, a single thought pierces the veil of my spiraling despair: Sal's box of family photos. I lurch to the living room, desperate to save this piece of his history. Sal may not want me, but he'll want the belongings that are irreplaceable. The fire rages, an all-consuming beast, not caring who or what it devours.
My lungs burn, each breath a struggle as the smoke infiltrates my airways. The room spins, my vision blurring at the edges. I stumble, reaching out for the wall, but there is nothing I can lean against that isn't flame kissed. Collapsing to my knees, I crawl to the stack of nondescript cardboard boxes in the middle of the living room and pull myself to my feet. The boxes are neatly labeled in Martine's handwriting. The photos are on top of the stack, probably still in the small cedar chest I bought him. I know, because on top of the smaller box, is a single frame. A photo of Sal and me that Martine took at my birthday dinner and had framed for us. I pull the box down and clutch it to my chest, a lifeline amid the chaos.
I need to get this to Sal. Coughing so hard I gag, I fall to my knees. I'm so thirsty. My shirt is stuck to my skin. The heat has become unbearable. I need to lie down for just a minute to get my bearings, to rest a little, to find some cleaner air. And then I can take this box to Sal.
I must not close my eyes. But my lids are so heavy. My eyes burn as hot as the monster devouring the house I built for Sal. The box slips from my hand.
And then I see her. Angie. Walking out of the flames with the sweet, slow, sexy smile that used to spread across her face every time she looked at me. Angie. The only girl I'd ever loved. The woman I was obsessed with. The angel who should still be alive and laughing with our children, only without me. Because it's my fault they left the house that morning. I’d give anything to have been the one to die in that accident, to spare my wife and children having their lives cut short. She lifts her hand, looking down at the framed photo of Sal and me. Angie. She'd understand. My arm weighs a thousand pounds, but I fumble for the frame, meaning to hand it to her.
But she's disappeared, engulfed in smoke. I surrender to the darkness, the weight of my despair finally dragging me under. At this moment, I am lost, adrift in a sea of my own making with no hope of rescue. The fire consumes me, inside and out, a physical manifestation of the emotional inferno that has been my constant companion since the day my world shattered.