The Man Made of Gasoline

He wakes with a mouthful of gasoline.

Swallows it.

Someone is trying to burn his house down. (It isn’t his house.)

A black cat sitting heavy on his chest, sharp and angry little fangs bared. A sleep paralysis demon. A domestic pet turned feral by abandonment in another dimension.

It takes a minute for him to find his voice.

“Aye, pussy cat, fuck off,” are the first disjointed words out of his mouth. The figure, shrouded by darkness, hisses toward his throat. Leaves its mouth open in an empty threat. The man raises a hand to attempt stroking over the scruff of its neck – a peace offering in contrast to the tone he’s taken – but the animal disappears prior to the touch.

Limbs heavy, he pushes upward against the unfamiliar mattress. Feet meet the floor with footwear already on. Still on, he supposes. There’s a trail leading out of the bedroom and down the hallway. Flammable liquid shines faded rainbows across hardwood, morphs into crimson at threshold of the front door.

There’s a steady banging echoing from somewhere outside, a clatter of weak glass as it lands on concrete and splinters into unrecognisable thousands of pieces that causes him to reach for the doorknob and seek out the sounds he shouldn't hear from such a distance.

A barn stands, tall and towering a shadow across dying grass from the opposite side of the property. Feet move of their own accord toward the poignant scent of rotting wood, toward a building that once filled the landowner's family with a hopeful promise of redemption.

Of prosperity.

Even before he’s reaching for the splintered door, he knows it’s an aged, litre-sized mason jar that’s shattered. Remnants of sticky liquid decorating the bottom. Homemade marmalade. It’s fallen from a perch atop an oversized tractor tire, jarred into motion when a booted toe thrashed against the rubber.

“Oi, give me a hand,” comes a voice. An accent he’s never spent a day away from, “Untie me.”

Cautious steps circle around the other male, a stray shard of glass crunching toward further destruction. The lighting is dim, yellowing as it reflects against unbailed hay.

The other male, hair matted against one side of his head and skin clearly indicating dehydration, is just another version of himself. Wrists tied behind his back around a support beam in the strange, otherworldly barn. Clothes dusted and dirtied.

Another version of himself, with markedly less freedom.

“Christ, cut me loose.”

He hesitates. He’s never trusted himself.

Ultimately reaches for one of the larger pieces of glass, palms it in the safest way it can be done, and crouches down at the man’s back. Hesitates again. Further encouragement comes from his own mouth – his other mouth – and he saws through the rope binding.

“Thanks,” the captive wrings hands around the burns of his wrists, attempts to stand but fails to find the strength or the footing. Lands on the cracked, displaced concrete flooring with a defeated laugh.

The man – the original man – doesn’t miss how the other him reaches for a shard of his own before he finally makes it to his feet. Unsurprising. It’s exactly what he’d do.

He swallows, squints against the darkness until his eyes adjust. In his chest swarms overwhelming confusion. On his tongue is a question of, “What’s going on here?”

The captive laughs, shakes his head, “You don’t know? You know.”

He knows: neither of them can exist in this place while the other does. Now that they’re face to face, one of them can never leave this structure. The man regrets cutting the rope. Regrets departing from the farmhouse. Regrets waking at all.

“You have to let me go,” the captive continues, “You know that, too. You think you’ll ever be free? In any sense of the word? If you leave me in here?”

“Where are we, exactly?” his voice isn’t as steady as he wishes it would be.

The other him grins, shakes his head in something that reads like disbelief as he corrects, “When are we, you mean?” A scoff, “Doesn’t matter. You know how it works, here.”

His wife, she’s always said she wouldn’t argue with a lawyer. For the first time, he understands why.

“You’re in my way,” the stranger, all too familiar for the man's comfort, adds.

He’s squeezing the makeshift blade in his hand so hard it starts to draw blood.

“You’re the one that has to stay here,” the man – the original man – tells the other version of himself.

“Are you certain?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Your freedom’s on the line.”

- - - - -

He wakes with a mouthful of gasoline, unsure which version of himself made it out of the barn alive.

Swallows it.