Part 3, Chapter 6 (Second Half)

Here's the end to Part 3. Part 4 will start on Thursday. Enjoy the update, and hey, why not just buy the whole thing right now, for only $1.25, with the links on the right?

Dave

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6 (Continued)

In the morning, the candles have burned down to stubs surrounded by waxen waves.

I ignite a pile of coals in the garden’s barbeque pit, next to the rear porch awning. The morning is clear and sunny, though cold, and I decide it would be pleasant to eat outside. While the coals heat up I go up to my old room to see if I can find any clothes worth taking.

I find clean, dusty boxer shorts in a cupboard, an old, threadbare Metallica t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a sweater, all left there because, three years ago, I knew I would never wear them again. I go into the bathroom and examine my new outfit in the mirror. “Sex-machine!” I laugh.

My family’s toiletries stand on the bathroom shelf and I'm shocked at how little my family’s possible whereabouts now weighs on my mind. Shouldn’t they have taken toiletries with them when they left? They took all the food, after all. I assume they’ve all died. As horrifying as that is, it seems logical. The problem is that I have so little feeling left, I’ve become so numb, that it’s difficult to show any genuine emotion. I’ve lost track of time, but it wasn’t long ago that Emily died too. My struggle over the loss of her life waned and faded as I received a heavier load to bear. Something important inside of me has gone. It left a week ago as I sat by my apartment window and watched a body cover with freezing snow on the Carnegie Museum’s plaza. All I have left is a growing lump in my throat and a burning behind the eyes. That’s where grief goes when you swallow it down. It hides there and waits to catch you by surprise.

I feel sick at my own sense of unfeeling. This is why I start a fire of newspapers in the living room of my late family’s home. After I eat my barbeque-cooked oatmeal, I gather clothes, and any amenities I can carry. Then I take one of the red-hot coals indoors, and watch the orange flames flicker up the living room’s wall, watching the smoke sweep, thicker than expected, along the ceiling. After a few minutes, the couch catches flame, which surprises me. I figured that all modern couches were fireproof. It looks like an upholstery company somewhere needs to do a recall. As the heat and smoke becomes too uncomfortable, I open the living room windows and climb out, pulling my pack behind me.

From outside, I watch the fire spread through the home for a few minutes. As each item burns, chars, or melts in the inferno that I created, another piece of my past life is exorcized from my mind. The weight of memories and familial responsibility is lifted from my shoulders. When Mecca fell, I had mixed feelings of disappointment, anger, and frustration, but also relief that I was able to escape the commitment it called for. The commitment I felt I owed my family pulled me all the way here, killing another man in the process and almost killing me too. I’m relived to be rid of it.

Though I didn’t found my parents, two brothers, and sister, I feel like I’ve returned my debt. I tried. Maybe they went into the city to find me. Maybe it was only my father who went to the city, as the rest of my family went to stay with an aunt in Ohio. This becomes another mute point as another room catches flame and there’s a crashing noise as an interior wall is weakened and causes my younger brother’s bedroom to fall through into the room below. Or maybe it’s the ground floor living room that falls into the basement. Through the dust, flames, and smoke I can no longer be sure.

There’s no joy in this event. This flight from commitment fills me only with relief. This murderous arsonist standing before you can start a new unencumbered chapter in his life. I’ll visit Saul, the hermit, and tell him what I did, and then perhaps return to Pittsburgh. At least there, I’m familiar with my surroundings and I know I can scavenge plenty of food. When summer arrives, perhaps I’ll go somewhere that I can grow my own food. Maybe I’ll use a patch of Schenley Park.

The smoke in my lungs feels like a fumigation of the body, rather than a choking limitation. This entire time, these past weeks, I feel like I’ve been a sleepwalker, unable to comprehend the horrors around me. I’ve been numb to everything. Now I feel above all of that. My childhood is consumed by flames, as are burdensome perceptions of how I once thought the world worked. I once believed in the old tale: get a job, get a family, stay out of trouble, pay your taxes, and settle for suburban monotony. Now I don’t know what I believe. But now I can decide to believe in whatever I want.

*

My first priority is to find a new form of transportation. There’s a long journey ahead of me, wherever that journey leads.

I stroll away from the burning house in the calmness of that morning. I look back on the continued destruction, despite my desire never to see the home again. Ahead, the snow lies thin on the ground; it feels more delicate than ever. I wonder, if I don’t look back again, will anybody ever see the footprints I make when I leave? I like to think I leave no footprints at all.