A Snippet of “Burn” (© 2014)
“I need what you have,” I tell him when opens his 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...” I start as 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. They call him the Gypsy King but he sounds like Tonto to me.
From the pockets of my jeans, I pull some crumpled bills. They burn as they fall. “Does it fucking matter?”
He opens the screen door and 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. Then the ground burns me and I pick my feet up.
“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.
“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...” I start as 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. They call him the Gypsy King but he sounds like Tonto to me.
From the pockets of my jeans, I pull some crumpled bills. They burn as they fall. “Does it fucking matter?”
He opens the screen door and 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. Then the ground burns me and I pick my feet up.
“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.
