Blood Flame

"Justin is so level-headed" everyone had said, so nobody really worried when Marcie Williams broke off with him. Everyone had seen it coming. Something about the way she had treated him in public, or her careless gossip in his absence. Everybody knew. Except Justin. Justin was blind, they said, "blinded by love," and they'd giggle.

The silhouette moved from the sliding patio door back into the living room, his arms full of firewood. He wasn't really watching his step very well, and almost tripped on the corner of the couch. He quickly righted himself, but the momentary imbalance had snapped him out of his self-pitying trance. A thought presented itself immediately. "Too much noise-wake up my parents"-but he dismissed it almost as quickly, he hadn't called out, or dropped anything.

He unloaded his arms on the hearth, and stacked the wood directly inside the bricked fireplace. He wadded some paper and stuffed it under the wood. The crackle of the paper was soon replaced by the crackle of burning wood. The room filled with the sweet smell of ash and pine. The lights of the fireplace cast long dancing shadows of Justin. He turned to watch them.

One was very large and doing a quick waltz, in 3/4 time. The fire was Justin's own time machine, showing moving silhouettes of merrier times. The dancer danced on and on, and there, beside it, Justin was mounted on a horse, galloping away into a flickering, red sunset. Beside that, and a little above it, was Justin asking Marcie for their first date. The image leapt with her affirmation. A grin broke over the boy's face, he glanced down at himself. His frame was small, his clothes hung loosely around bony shoulders. His shoes were big, though, too big. The movie cast on the TV wall was still playing. He was moving fast now, probably late. And just to the left, Marcie' porch, and Marcie. Her mouth was moving slowly, with deliberation. He averted his gaze, not caring to read the lips when he had heard them earlier this evening. His hands, too, were large and dexterous. He manipulated them carefully, counting each finger. There were ten. Why did this surprise him? His gaze wandered down to his bumpy wrists. The veins stood out in sharp relief, becoming blue or black at the will of the enormous flame. The veins were so hard, so enormous, so convenient. The movie cast on the wall was still playing.

One tiny slash. Maybe. Ten minutes, maybe. Five. He could do it, he knew he could. One fleeting moment of bravery, and then just sit back and watch. It seemed too easy. Such a simple way to make Marcie understood what she did to him, to give his parents some comprehension of his pain. They had laughed inside, but they'd cry tomorrow. Something caught his eye. He looked up at the flickering time machine, and saw the knife gleam, and flash, he saw the flames engulf his image.

And then there was nothing. No light, no shadow, just black black wall mutely stating its denial of any offered information. Justine whirled to face the fireplace; it was blazing merrily. Slowly he turned and watched the wall behind him. A shadow leaped gaily, first left, right, vertically, in direct subordinance to the flames.

Justin turned on the bleak white light of the phosphorescence in the kitchen. He filled a water glass grimly, and took it to the fireplace. In a single motion he threw it onto the flames, and turned to refill the glass. The fire coughed and sputtered, steam disappeared up the flue. It took six glasses of water to make the fire die.