BurnA Story by Aidan Cottreau When a deranged home life and severe untreatable ADHD manifests itself in a troubled, defiant and violent high school student with an obsession with fire. Restart. The screen is telling me it's 1:31. It's telling me that now my mom is passed out downstairs on the couch, and that my brother has just left through his bedroom window. Not that there's any point in him being secretive; I know where he's going. There's only one shooting gallery within walking distance. This is my life. My clothes smell like smoke. My hands smell like gasoline. My mouth tastes like nicotine and tooth paste. Tonight is just like any other night. Tonight it's late but I'm not done. Tonight it's late but I still can't sleep. Tonight but I won't wake up tomorrow. Tonight I can't live. Tonight it's Audrey Hepburn. The screen is telling me “My Fair Lady”. The screen is telling me “Directed by George Cukor”. The screen is telling me “Produced by Jack Warner”. The screen is telling me “It's time for me to take off my pants”. Tonight I can get by. Last night it was Julie Andrews. The night before that it was Mary Astor. It doesn't really matter, they all yield the same result. Another ten minutes, another Kleenex, another undisturbed sleep. It's magic really. It's almost as good as burning. Almost. Most teens use websites, full of nobody’s getting filled. They go by category. What they like to see. But nothing is ever as good as you imagined it to be when you really see it. Sooner or later people see that life is just one big buildup, but to what? Nothing but sickness and death. The Mona Lisa, the CN Tower, Niagara falls. It's just a painting, just a building, just water. Sex. Better not to see what it really is. Better to watch their faces. Uncontorted, unblemished and unsoiled. Better to let your imagination and hand do the rest. And there are none more pure than mid 1900s actresses. Nothing more beautiful than a flame. This is my life. Watching the screen keeps me from seeing the burns on my fingers. It keeps me from seeing the scabs on my knuckles. It keeps me from seeing the bandage on my sprained wrist. It keeps me from seeing the truth. The screen is telling me it's 1:33. It's telling me that my mom is still unemployed, and that my brother has just taken a hit. My room smells like incense. My bed smells like charcoal. My breath smells like weed. Anything that will catch, I've got it here somewhere. The Sound of Music, The Maltese Falcon, it doesn't really matter, I'm not too picky. Another bottle of lotion, another hand cramp, another night. Whatever I can find online, whatever I can download onto my phone, whatever I can remember from what was on TV last weekend. No headphones, no subtitles, no language necessary. That's not the communication I need. The screen is telling me it's 1:36. It's telling me that my mom has left the liquor cabinet open, and that my brother has just pissed on the neighbours lawn. Right now I can ignore the twenty in my jacket pocket from my last jump. I can ignore the ashes in my trash bin from my last burning. I can ignore what tomorrow will be like. This is how I can fall asleep every night. Tonight, this is my escape. Tonight, this is my release. This is how I can coop with ADHD, an alcoholic mom in a single parent home, a stoner brother. This is how I can make it through a six hour school day with ten calls to guidance, four calls to the principals office one call to the therapists. This is how I can live the life I have. Because each night I come back to this. The screen is telling me “Wouldn't it be lovely?”. The screen is telling me “I would never budge 'till spring”. The screen is telling me “Warm an' tender as 'e can be”. The screen is telling me “I'm a worthless sack of s**t.”. Ignore the guilt. Ignore the pain. Ignore the anxiety. Another lie down, another clean up, another chance to hit snooze in the morning. Tomorrow it's Kim Novak, Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelly. Vertigo, Giant, Rear Window. My mom has just wet herself, my brother is collapsed on a sidewalk. The screen is telling me it's 1:40. This is my escape. This is my release. Literally. The screen is telling me it's 1:42. I'm done. I can sleep, or at least try to. I can wake up tomorrow. I can live. Another day, another class, another hit, another fire to light, all just hours ahead but I can. And I haven't even lit a match yet. Magic. This is my life. But who the f**k cares?
Beginning. It's not even 10:00 and I'm already reaching for my matches. Some mother f****r missed and went all over the seat. It might be because I missed most of my meds this morning, but really it wouldn't be much different if I hadn't. I can't sit still for half of the seventy five minutes they expect me to. Endless drugs, endless side effects, not one desired outcome. At the bottom of my backpack I find a few pills and swallow them. 5, 4, 3, 2 I gently massage my temples. My brain is already throbbing, but that's not why I left class. Adderall, Concerta, Dexedrine, they only hammer nails through your forehead. My hand goes into my pocket and pulls out my match box, the handout I just received is clamped between my teeth. I strike it and light the corner of the page, then drop the match in the toilet. I quickly put the box back in my pocket and take the paper out of my mouth before the flame burns my lips. Some d********g has left a floater. The flame is halfway up. Half the paper is still white while the other half floats as black ashes in the soiled water. The paper incinerated, as is the pressure, the stress, the anxiety that it brought. I struggle to keep the page in my grip. My fingers aren't cooperating, but that's not why I couldn't hold a pencil another second. Focalin, Metadate, Methylin, they only shake your hands for hours on end. The flame dances farther up the handout, numbers and letters disappearing as it goes. The rush I'm getting as I watch the page burn is better then any drug. The flame is getting closer to my fingers. It hangs over the bowl. But I want to feel it before it drops. The closer it gets the more I can't wait. Waiting. 5, 4, 3, 2 Some low life has carved “I like P***y” into the stall door. I stare blankly at the flame, urging it to climb. My brain needs sleep, but that's not why I couldn't stay awake as the teacher spoke. Ritalin, Vyvanse, Daytrana, they only keep you up at night. The fire licks my fingers and I love it. I hold on as long as I can. My skin turns red. My skin starts to blister. My skin burns. I'm lettting the page drop. The satisfying hiss it makes as it hits the water gives me a shiver. My vision is blurred as my eyes start to water. I close my eyes. All I smell is s**t. I put my stinging fingers in my mouth, and flush with the other hand. Some a*s hole left the tap on. Running my fingers under cool water I decide that that's enough for today. I decide that I've done enough homework for today. I decide that I've been in school long enough for today. I've decided that I need to try to eat something. Maybe having missed my meds today will at least let me have lunch. My body is begging me for food, but that's not why I couldn't wait for lunch break. Wait. 5, 4, 3, 2 Quillivant, Strattera, Intuniv, they only make you drop ten pounds. The mirror is grimy and it makes me look dirtier than I really am. It makes me look dirtier than I feel. It makes me look as dirty as everyone else sees me. I check my pockets for money. I don't blink at the pain when my burned fingers touch the cool metal coins. That fat a*s owes me for the hit on that smoker kid last week. He had better be at the meeting place. I cover my fingers with a wet paper towel as I leave the washroom. 2. 25 Enough for a reason to go to the cafeteria. Enough to try and tempt myself with food that I don't even want. After class I need to find Fat A*s. I can't let anyone off easy. It would hurt my reputation. The best part of getting out earlier is that there's no lineup when I get there. I pay for my lunch and leave. Some c**k sucker has stuck gum under the bench I sit down on. I look down longingly at my food. I need to eat it, but I don't want to Elavil, Norpramin, Pamelor, they only make everything taste burnt. The bell rings for first period class to end. I quickly force myself to swallow two bites then leave. I need to find Fat A*s. He didn't show.
Work. Money has never been an issue. So why do it? Because at least the money I make is mine, not his. My mom hasn't worked in almost a year now but the money keeps coming. It wasn't hard to figure out from where. And to think that, that b***h was keeping it all to herself while she made the rest of us live off of her s**t hairdressers income. It's justice, what I do. Most of the time. Most of the time those scum bags had it coming for a long time. Spending it all on fancy dresses. Spending it all on high end perfume. Spending it all on booze. Any kind of booze. It was only after she got fired that she started sharing. My dad left years ago. She said that she kicked him out but I didn't believe that for a second. I can't blame him for leaving though, I probably would've too. At least he felt some guilt in ditching out, since the money kept coming. But it's still his money. It works better than any therapy. It's retribution, what I do. Some of the time. My advertisements are almost everywhere. Everywhere that nobody should ever look. The bottom of the dumpster outside the school, the bottom of every trash can, under the lip of every toilet bowl. Everywhere that some looser could find their sorry faces. Everywhere that some geeky f****t can end up, and look around in terror for something to save them. Save them from a face full of scrap metal and wood. Save them from a face full rotten oranges and banana peels. Save them from a face full of s**t. And there it is. Maybe not exactly what they were hoping for, but it's there. In every unused locker. In every change room shower. In guidance office. It's better than any drugs I get myself. Prescribed or not. It's righteous what I do. Part time. This way it's all my money. Nothing from that jerkoff who left us. Spending it all on glamourous makeup. Spending it all on sparkling jewelry. Spending it all at the most popular restaurants in town to impress her friends. That f*****g c**t. Just my cell number scribbled in black sharpie, and underneath it written “Get them back” or “Next time it's them” or “Now they'll know how it feels”. Just what they need to see. It only takes them until they get home and see the extent of their injuries that they pick up their phone and text me. “I don't know who you are but can you help me?” or “Whoever this is, I saw your number. What do you do?” or “How much to make him eat s**t?”. It's decency, what I do. On occasion. W***e. I make my own money. This is how. I always tell them the same thing. “$50, and you never hear from them or me again.” I always tell them the same place. “Cafeteria, 2nd period.” As if I could wait any longer to know who I'm putting the hit on. It's almost surprising how much these f***s will pay have it done. Fat A*s was just an exception, which is why I need to find him. Can't be going soft on anyone. Can't ruin my reputation. My rep grew faster than I expected it to, you hear about me walking down the halls. You hear about me in the boys change room, and in the hot-boxed washrooms and in the applied math classrooms. That's why I choose a busy place to meet people. If anyone knew who I was I'd be dead by now. They settle in with their lunches and I come to them. It's fast. They tell me who, they give me money, they get out of there and never say a word. Or else they're my next hit. But they never talk. It's not at all hard to find whoever earns me my money. They're not trying to hide. They don't think they've got anything to fear. Get it over quickly and you never have to see their face. That's the worst part. Not the pain in my hand, not the ache in my gut, not my fair share of the bruises. The look on their face as you spin them around and throw the first punch. They know it's coming the second my hand touches their shoulder. Every now and then the wrong person stumbles across my adds. It's not the worst thing that could happen, but being set up to put a hit on some nobody for a little prick who was too lazy to do it himself is a pain. I do it anyways though. It's the only time I can escape. Money is money. As long as it's not his. S**t. Fat A*s is on his way to his 95% average. He's on his way to a premed scholarship at an Ivy League university. He's on his way to a happy, rich, morbidly obese life. He's on his way to his chemistry class. I grab him by his collar and drag him out the nearest door. I'm asking him for my money. “Dude, what are you doing?” His voice shakes. He knows. I drag him through the parking lot and across the road. I'm asking him for my money. “I've got it, it's just not here right now!” He's already crying. He knows. I drag him through the ditch and through the bushes. I drag him into the woods deeper and deeper. I'm asking him for my money. “Please don't, please don't...” He's whimpering like the lame b***h he is. He knows. I throw him to the ground. I am standing over him as he roles onto his hands and knees and tries to crawl away. Pathetic. I get to work. It isn't long before I have to see his face. A mess of pain and regret and left over grease from his last bag of chips. I'm angry because I don't have my money. I don't have enough for the dinner which I'll eat one third of that I need to buy myself tonight. I don't have enough money for more matches and lighter fluid which I am almost out of at this point. I don't have enough money to let this one slide. Sorry Fat A*s. But I'm not sorry. I don't think again until I notice the blood. That's the best part of this. I can stop thinking. Just for periods at a time, but my brain is quiet. It's almost as good as burning. Almost. It's getting all over his clothes, pouring from his face. I see his face again. It's a mess of shattered teeth and broken cartilage and massive swelling. I see my hand and see the split knuckles and deformed fingers and crushed bone. I've gone too far. I stop. I stand up. I'm staring down, my gaze empty. It's clean, what I do. Never. I'm trying not to but the only place I can look is at his face. His eyes are open. I count to ten. His eyes are still open. I count to twenty. His eyes are still open. I count to sixty. His eyes are still open and when I kneel down to check, he isn't breathing. I check all of his pockets and find nothing. Fat A*s why didn't you just f*****g pay me? I cover the body with leaves and dead branches as much as I can. I stand thinking for a minute. I look around but there is no one there. No one ever comes this far into the woods. Looking down at Fat A*s' dead body I know what I need to do. It's not even 11:00 and I'm going to burn again. But I need to do something first. I'm running home, cradling my broken hand. The pain has set in and I'm trying not to scream. I know exactly where I'm going. I know what I need to do. I need money His money.
Play. It's almost funny that I've known something like this was going to happen eventually. Nothing lasts long enough to be fully enjoyed. At least I'll go out with a burn. The door to my house is never locked. I'm the last one to leave every morning and I make sure of that. I'm in the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards that I've never opened before. Where is it? I know it's in here somewhere. I always leave it as obvious as I can that no one's home. Always leave it looking as easy as possible. The door hanging slightly ajar. The lights all turned off. Window open a crack. All of the above. It's almost funny when I stop dumping out the shelves full of silverware and china and realize that I know exactly where it all is. Running up the stairs to her room I'm laughing. There, on his side of the bed, in the little table that she never touched. She needed to keep it there. To make it last. It never lasted long enough for her, and that's how I know she would never have kicked him out. All the clues are there and I know I'm right. The tables drawer hasn't been closed properly. There's a torn envelope, empty on the table. It's as if she was never trying to hide anything. She must have gone to it this morning when she needed more. The spilt rum on the carpet beside it is proof enough for that. I walk over but can barely contain my energy, which I already have too much of according to the doctors. It's almost funny when I open up the drawer and find it. All of it. Wherever my b*****d father is, he's swimming in it. His money. The drawer is stuffed with envelops, most of them aren't opened yet. They're all the same. Plain white, bill sized and with no return address. I look in one of them which still has some bills left in it. They're all hundreds. I grab an unopened envelop and tear through the seal. Hundred dollar bills flow out onto the sticky carpet. If only this moment of riches could last longer, but I hate every second of it. It's his money after all. I throw all of it into my backpack. All of the scattered bills and all of the envelops. Full, opened or empty I don't care. The drawer is empty and I realize that I need more. More of it. All of it. I'm rummaging through her room for things to take. The dresses. The perfume. The jewelry. The makeup. I take it all. I need more. To make it last as long as I can. To make it last long enough to enjoy it fully. I'm in my washroom
and I dump all of the pills from their containers into my backpack.
All the Adderall, all the Foclin, all the Ritalin.
All the Quillivant, and all the Elavil. I take it
all. I take everything. Every bottle from the liquor cabinet that I'd only ever seen full. Now it's empty. I've never seen such a beautifully empty space in my life. In my brothers room I open every drawer. I rummage excitedly through his dresser. All the weed, all the crack, all the heroin. I take it all. I take the red jugs of gasoline from the garage. I take my stash of lighter fluid. It's finally enough. Now it's time for me to have some fun. Fat A*s is right where I left. Obviously. He's not going to be moving himself anywhere. Ever. I open my backpack and spread everything around and over Fat A*s' body. I open and pour out the countless bottles of various wines and rums and vodkas. I don't take the time to look at them. I'm too excited. This is it. My relief. My surreality. And it's right here in front of me. It's everywhere. His money. I spread the lighter fluid. I pour the gasoline. I've always loved the smell of gasoline. I can hardly wait. My hands are shaking making it harder for me to light a match. I notice my watch. It's 1:30. I strike the match. The beautiful flame blossoms and I wait before I drop it. I need to feel it first. As soon as I feel it I'll drop it. And it will all be over. I wait for it to touch my fingers. I wait for it to sear my flesh. I wait for it to burn me. To take the pain away. Wait. 5 4 3 2 © 2015 Aidan CottreauAuthor's Note
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9 Reviews  Last Updated on January 13, 2015 Tags: fire, highschool, violence, society, psycho, experimental, strange |
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