Chapter 5
Chapter Five
T he man in the mirror bore little resemblance to the face he remembered. He ran a lean hand through his sparse shock of white hair. Noted how loose his clothes hung.
He’d dreamt of her again, his redheaded fire-girl.
She’d been there, his first time, at seven years old. An accident.
It had been the start of a lifelong love. The lure, the beauty, the striking figure the flames made.
Fire-girl’s face was smudged with soot. She removed her helmet, her curls a cascade of red against her yellow-striped black uniform. She looked beautiful, much like his mother. He told her so.
She snorted, “Yeah, kid—I look like a frigging princess.”
He nodded. “A Princess of Fire. Your hair, it’s pretty.”
She cocked her head and studied him. “Princess of Fire, huh?”
He swallowed and nodded. “Your castle’s built of fire. I’ll build it for you.”
She squatted down. Her tone was no longer playful. Instead, it was serious, like his mother’s.
“I’d rather be a Wizard of Fire. I could control the flames then, keep them from hurting and scaring the animals that lived here.”
He looked beyond her and all around. Wisps of smoke rose from the black-dusted ground. Skeletal black fingers reached upward as if in celebration. So thin, unsure whether they’d fall or stand, but excited all the same.
Fire-girl’s voice was sharp. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
A fist pounded on the bathroom door, an angry voice. “I gotta take a piss.”
A reminder that he’d lost the freedom to make his own choices.
He cursed the image in the mirror, cursed those who brought him here. Then opened the door. The burly asshole shoved past him, forced him out. The door remained open. The sound and smell of dehydrated piss followed him to the kitchen.
This place was not for him. Neither was prison. Bitterness burned inside him as he thought of the years wasted. He’d been forced to live with men that were no better than dogs.
There were flies in the kitchen. One of the screens had a hole. In and out they flew.
The two skeletal men at the table made no move to close the window or clean up the dishes stacked in the sink. The flies hovered over the dried-on food as they would over a deer carcass.
Mom wouldn’t like this.
He muttered about the vice of laziness as he marched over to the window above the sink and slammed it shut. They didn’t notice. Not even when he yanked open the dishwasher and shoved the sink contents into the racks, poured soap into its compartment, and started the machine.
Living here had been his only option. His decrepit has-been father said so. The cops who’d brought him here agreed. His probation officer also echoed their words.
The same probation officer who said if he slipped him twenty-dollars, he’d look the other way if he needed to take a walk or something.
It was the or something that drew him.
The others took advantage of the deal, came back reeking of perfume, sex, and sweat. He had other plans. Paid the twenty, took walks, did his own version of or something. Reveled in the news coverage of flashing lights, shiny red trucks, and uniforms.
He’d waited years, pacing the perimeter of the rectangle of grass he’d been permitted to walk on. He promised the man he’d once been that he’d finish what he started back when his hair held color and his shoulders weren’t so stooped.
No one on his parole board saw that he still dreamed, had plans. They believed every word he spoke about the past.
I’m aware of the pain I caused.
Even the shrink declared him rehabilitated, safe to return to society.
Crackling crowns, hissing trees. His dream, a high like no other.
The fine aftermath sifted through his fingers. A cascade of shiny black waves over his hands.
He would have it all.
Especially his unforgotten dark muse. He’d pay another twenty dollars, take a longer walk, another bus ride. He’d deliver another gift, watch her reaction, from the trees. It had been too long since he’d heard the chorus she brought to his work.
His dream came to mind. Fire-girl’s last words echoed as she crouched at eye level with him.
Tell me something, little guy. Do you still have matches in your pockets?
His hands went to his pants. His pockets itched. Only the key to this shithole met his fingers. His wallet in the back one.
That was about to change.