The Hot Bloom

The deep dark blue of the River North slowly overtook the flicker of walnut drifting towards the riverbed graveyard below. Stealing a glance at Reagan I see their face sunken, with a glimmer of malice I wonder may be intended for me. I feel a slight smile pushing forth into my cheekbones and shake it off. I hated that locket. I hated the man who made. I hated the heart shaped face that had faded within it. Reminiscence in the face of overwhelming despair is nothing but a distraction. Why doesn't Reagan understand that? And understand that I love seeing it disappear? Their malice is the first sign they might grasp the feelings I have grappled with carrying that locket these last weeks. Loathing, rage, despair, and most of all, guilt. Beside me, Reagan shifts their weight and clears their throat, my cue to leave. I pivot and saunter off, the wet ash crunching loudly underfoot. Piper must hear me as I see her tail wagging its way towards me in the distance. She lets out a few happy yaps as I reach out to rough up her ears.

Piper and I make our way down towards the West Bend, where I grab a box of cereal from the old supermarket. I scatter a handful towards Piper, the rainbow colors contrasting sharply with the black ground below. I unfold myself onto the earth beside her and start to pick at a small scab on my knee. My mind tumbles back to all the times I cut myself whittling with Uncle Dean. He used to say I didn't deserve opposable thumbs with how poorly I carved the wood. He would chuckle to himself as I applied pressure to whatever wound had prompted the joke. In the end I had whittled 36 different walnut hearts, all of which he had burned, before Dean had grabbed my blade and tossed me the one on his neck for reference. I had opened it up to Mayor Griff's commercial smile looking back at me. I chuckle thinking of her faded face sitting on the bottom of that river, smiling that mindless smile forever. Sinking that memory was bringing in the first sign of relief from the guilt I had borne the last weeks. Guilt for the fire that had flushed out the town and torn down a nation, fueled by some stupid walnut hearts.

Reagan and I are one of only a few survivors who had outrun the fire. We never had anyone to save, so it was just ourselves and Piper we dragged out of town. We had watched Mayor Griff hop into a station wagon some unlucky family had made the mistake of loading and prepping with the keys in. She had driven off to the sound of the mother's screams only to be killed in that car not to many miles later. Reagan had spent the last several weeks reliving those memories, intertwining them with the conflict of losing their father in the flames he had so recklessly formed. I spent those early weeks doing my best to hide the relief I had felt knowing that I would never whittle with that man again. Dean was a bitter drunk and a manipulative abuser. He was an even worse father. At the onset of his affair with Mayor Griff he had, quite literally, thrown Reagan out onto the land with me. Reagan mourned nonetheless. Looking out upon the land now, I can barely reconcile it with the memories. By the time this town had smoked itself out, the surrounding cities had been lit aflame. There was nothing to ground me.

From the north Reagan's form came into site, their shoulders slumping in jarring contrast to their somehow constant ability to walk in haste. As Reagan approaches, I put forth the cereal box into which they happily reach. Watching them retreat from the box, however, I notice the rainbow O's clinging to their wet skin. Biting my lip, I turn away, hiding the hot anger crawling up into my cheeks. Glancing back I see the familiar weight of that damned locket in their front pocket. Swallowing the newly forming lump and clearing my throat, I hope Reagan might pick up on my cue and move forward without me. No such luck. Zeroing in on the familiar crunch of our feet, I feel the guilt overwhelm me. How long are we condemned to this listless existence? Ever guilty, ever reminiscent, ever on the same land with nothing and nobody to break the pattern? Handing Reagan the cereal box, Piper and I pick up the pace as hot tears fall heavy on my cheeks and warm ash finds it's way into my shoes. Closing my eyes to lock in the tears, I take a deep breath and try to smolder out the burning in my chest. What did it serve to burn my heart out too? Slowing down, Reagan matches my stride and thrusts a hand my direction. I grasp it and feel the weight lighten on my shoulders. They squeeze and let go, a gesture of good faith and I am suddenly reminded of the plants we learned about in biology together. The tiny green sprouts that would push themself up through the ash after a forest fire. I reflect for a moment and imagine burying myself deep beneath my feet, taking root and blooming once more. I walk on with Reagan, with that tiny little thought alight in mind. I worry. I worry it might burn me up and I worry I might smolder it too.