Staring Into the Fire

My younger brother Mark and I went to the same school, but our older brother, Tony, went to another.

Even though we were very young, I remember singing a song we made up as we walked. Since school started at 8:20, I started, “It’s ten past eight, and I’m almost late.” And Mark chimed in with, “For your first date.”

We laughed and kept walking, thinking about the next verse when a group of boys a little older, or at least bigger than we were, started taunting us.

“Look at the (expletive deleted) walking together singing shitty songs.” Began one, then another added, “Why don’t you hold hands?”

I shouted at that one, “We’re not (that hate speech name). We’re brothers just going to school. Leave us alone.”

Oh, this one’s got spunk, the biggest one said just before he punched me in the mouth so hard it knocked me out for a second. I remember jumping back up quickly, and thinking oh crap, this is like a Saturday morning cartoon. I can see stars. There are really stars, and I can’t see anything but their feet. The rest above their shins was cloudy.

I heard my brother screaming and kicking the one who hit me. “Leave my brother alone you big bully.” Before the rest jumped on him and started hitting him — that was just before I got hit again and kicked in the nuts, blacking out once again.

I heard an adult voice coming through the fog, “Hey, knock it off! Leave those boys alone you bullies. Get on to school before I tell your parents.” The crossing guard on his way to his post close to the school helped me up.

I was bleeding, and I had ripped my clothes. My little brother didn’t look much better, but he started screaming at the bullies. He would have gone after them if the crossing guard hadn’t grabbed his arm. Chuckling a little at Mark, he said, “I think they’ve had enough for one day.”

He told us his name was Mr. Dumont as he walked us the rest of the way to school. Then, he showed us to the principal’s office and explained what had happened.

Next, we saw the school nurse who cleaned and bandaged our wounds. The physical ones, anyway.

She gave us a note from the principal for our parents, told us to go home, rest, and come back the next day. So, we did as she told us.

We spent the rest of the day lying on the couch watching TV, dreading when our father would come home because we knew we would get beat again.

We didn’t have much money, so there was no excuse for fighting and tearing up our school clothes. Even though we hadn’t started it, and we had a note from school, we got the strap anyway.

We didn’t go to school the next day. We discovered an old burnt house on the way and decided to explore it.

There was plywood over the doors and windows on the first floor. However, the plywood over the door to the basement wasn’t nailed at the bottom.

I held the board out as my brother crawled through, and he pushed it out with his feet so that I could get in through the hole.

The pungent smell of fire and mold was strong, but we didn’t mind. Every squeak in the boards as we climbed the stairs to the first floor made us stop and look around. We were sure someone would discover us there, and we’d get in trouble.

In what we supposed was once the living room because of the old couch and burned-out TV was a grand fireplace made of stone. In the center of the room were two boys. They were piling wood in a circle like a campfire.

My brother said, “Do you see what I see”?

I replied by nodding my head and shushing him softly so as not to disturb the boys.

As they continued, one boy asked the other, “Are you sure this is how it works? I hope so because I’m getting cold and hungry. Can we have marshmellows”?

The other replied, “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve seen dad do this many times at camp.” He said as he poured gas from the can into a cup and poured it onto the wood.

Realizing the danger of what they were doing, I asked, “Hey, why don’t you just put it in the fireplace”? But neither answered me as they continued their task.

One of the boys struck a match and threw it in the fire. They stood there staring into the fire for a few seconds until the flames from the fire spread across the floor. When it reached the gas can, it erupted, engulfing both boys in flames.

I’ll never forget the sound of their screams. As small as we were, we knocked down the plywood getting out of there.

The End.

Stephen Dalton is a retired US Army First Sergeant with a degree in journalism from the University of Maryland and a Certified US English Chicago Manual of Style Editor. Also, a Top Writer in Nutrition, Travel, Fiction, Transportation, VR, NFL, Design, Creativity, and Short Story.

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