Burn
by A. Craig Newman
An excerpt from “Burn”, available on Smashwords, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Gardners, Kobo, and Scribd
My world is burning. The fire consumes the last of any love I have.
I used to have love. I used to love. It's been too many days since love touched my heart. It's been too many days since I felt happy or even felt good. I feel only pain now. No love. No joy. Pain is the fire of my world. It burns everything in me and the tears I shed don't put it out.
I have to forget. I need to forget. If I forget, I can be numb. I won't feel good, but I won't feel like this either. I need to go see the old gypsy. He will know how to make me forget.
He lives in a trailer, but they say he hides a fortune in gold. I don't care about any of that shit. Gold does nothing for me. Gold will melt in this fire but can't put it out.
"I need what you have," I tell him when he comes to the door. "I need to feel good."
"Another junkie," he says.
His trailer is on fire. The ground is on fire. I am on fire. It hurts so much. I weep.
"Not a junkie," I say through my tears. "I need-" My head swirls in the wind blowing ashes around my mind. "Make me forget," I tell him.
"Forget what?" He speaks with some thick accent. He sounds like Tonto.
I pull crumpled bills from the pockets of my jeans. They burn as they fall. "Does it fucking matter?"
He opens the screen door, picks up the burning bills, and counts them. "It matters. If I no know what you forget, I give you wrong drink. You forget wrong thing."
I stumble past him into his trailer. It smells like he was making dinner from the wrong parts of a deer. The shit smell in the air cuts through the fire for a moment.
"So, what you forget?" he asks.
"I want to forget me." More tears pour down my face. I grab him by his vest and get really close, face to face. The fire on me races along his body. His black hair lights red. He breathes fire. "I don't want to be me anymore. Anything but me." I drop to my knees in front of him, weeping again.
He takes me by the shoulders and sits me in on a bench. He goes to another bench and lifts, exposing a variety of ingredients. His fingers dash among the vials, pouches, and lumps as he grinds, pours, and mixes things into a bowl. It bubbles a bit as he mixes it. He brings the bowl to me.
"You can drink this," he says to me, "but you should not. Find another way."
I take the bowl from him. "I have to have some of that, man." I drink the soup. It tastes like mud looks. Gritty and heavy and hot.
Then, the cold wind blows. The flames freeze into solid crystals. Icicles jutting up from the earth. For the first time in a while too long to measure, I smile.
I go through my pockets, breathing hard and deep, watching the mist cloud from each breath. I pull out more bills and keys and my wallet. I find a picture. It's a sepia Polaroid. It's me. But it's not me.
"I have a photo of a man whose name I don't know," I say.
The gypsy breaks his frozen state to speak. "Sleep it off in back."
I look carefully at the picture and catch my refection in the window. "This guy has my face."
He takes me by the shoulders again and I feel the ice creep from his hands up my arms and into my brain. "No man has you face. This just old picture."
The man in the picture has his arm around a woman. They stand in front of a house. "He has my wife. He has my life." I slip from the old man's hands and spill out the front door. The snow on the ground cushions my fall, but I drop the photo. I pick it up and see the address on the back. I know where it is. It’s my house, after all.
I thought the snow was over, but it started to fall again as I walked. I walk for an hour before I find the place. The town has changed. I get lost, but my gut leads me home. I look for my key to the locked front door. My pockets are completely empty. I've lost my keys, my wallet, and all my money. All I have now is this picture. There's some guy in this house with my wife, I want in.
My world is burning. The fire consumes the last of any love I have.
I used to have love. I used to love. It's been too many days since love touched my heart. It's been too many days since I felt happy or even felt good. I feel only pain now. No love. No joy. Pain is the fire of my world. It burns everything in me and the tears I shed don't put it out.
I have to forget. I need to forget. If I forget, I can be numb. I won't feel good, but I won't feel like this either. I need to go see the old gypsy. He will know how to make me forget.
He lives in a trailer, but they say he hides a fortune in gold. I don't care about any of that shit. Gold does nothing for me. Gold will melt in this fire but can't put it out.
"I need what you have," I tell him when he comes to the door. "I need to feel good."
"Another junkie," he says.
His trailer is on fire. The ground is on fire. I am on fire. It hurts so much. I weep.
"Not a junkie," I say through my tears. "I need-" My head swirls in the wind blowing ashes around my mind. "Make me forget," I tell him.
"Forget what?" He speaks with some thick accent. He sounds like Tonto.
I pull crumpled bills from the pockets of my jeans. They burn as they fall. "Does it fucking matter?"
He opens the screen door, picks up the burning bills, and counts them. "It matters. If I no know what you forget, I give you wrong drink. You forget wrong thing."
I stumble past him into his trailer. It smells like he was making dinner from the wrong parts of a deer. The shit smell in the air cuts through the fire for a moment.
"So, what you forget?" he asks.
"I want to forget me." More tears pour down my face. I grab him by his vest and get really close, face to face. The fire on me races along his body. His black hair lights red. He breathes fire. "I don't want to be me anymore. Anything but me." I drop to my knees in front of him, weeping again.
He takes me by the shoulders and sits me in on a bench. He goes to another bench and lifts, exposing a variety of ingredients. His fingers dash among the vials, pouches, and lumps as he grinds, pours, and mixes things into a bowl. It bubbles a bit as he mixes it. He brings the bowl to me.
"You can drink this," he says to me, "but you should not. Find another way."
I take the bowl from him. "I have to have some of that, man." I drink the soup. It tastes like mud looks. Gritty and heavy and hot.
Then, the cold wind blows. The flames freeze into solid crystals. Icicles jutting up from the earth. For the first time in a while too long to measure, I smile.
I go through my pockets, breathing hard and deep, watching the mist cloud from each breath. I pull out more bills and keys and my wallet. I find a picture. It's a sepia Polaroid. It's me. But it's not me.
"I have a photo of a man whose name I don't know," I say.
The gypsy breaks his frozen state to speak. "Sleep it off in back."
I look carefully at the picture and catch my refection in the window. "This guy has my face."
He takes me by the shoulders again and I feel the ice creep from his hands up my arms and into my brain. "No man has you face. This just old picture."
The man in the picture has his arm around a woman. They stand in front of a house. "He has my wife. He has my life." I slip from the old man's hands and spill out the front door. The snow on the ground cushions my fall, but I drop the photo. I pick it up and see the address on the back. I know where it is. It’s my house, after all.
I thought the snow was over, but it started to fall again as I walked. I walk for an hour before I find the place. The town has changed. I get lost, but my gut leads me home. I look for my key to the locked front door. My pockets are completely empty. I've lost my keys, my wallet, and all my money. All I have now is this picture. There's some guy in this house with my wife, I want in.
