Dirt and Gasoline

I open my eyes, gasping, suddenly aware of how cold a night it was. I’m in a shallow dirt hole. The night looms heavy on my shoulders as I sit upright. I…can’t remember anything. I don’t know who or where I am. Looking around, I see I am just on the edge of some wooded area. There are scuff marks all around me, as if something was dragged here, and footprints leading away and into the woods suggest someone took off in a hurry. I cough, spitting out dirt that had caked in my mouth. Gross.

Standing, my clothes feel strange on my thin frame; they are sopping wet. Nothing in my pockets. On the ground next to me is one of those red gas canisters with the yellow spout; it’s been tipped over and most of the gas is gone. There’s a puddle of gas surrounding the spot I was laying, and the smell overwhelms my senses. A torn piece of paper lies next to a discarded shovel covered in mud.

I stoop down and read the note, it doesn’t say much and is quite hard to read, but I do make out the name of a street. Well, I guess it’s time to start walking and get the hell out of here and figure out…ugh, I don’t know where to even start. I think to myself, moving my feet sluggishly towards the streetlamp I see a few yards ahead of me. I suppose the logical thing is to head to that street. But I don’t even know where to go. At least I’ll get my exercise in.

I glance at the streetlamp as I pass by. That light is so pretty…I could stare at that all night. I want to touch it. I shake my head, trying to focus. Quit being a freak and get your ass moving! My mind chastises. Time seems to tick by forever, and no matter how long it seems, my clothes stay damp as ever. The smell of the gasoline emanates from them, but it’s much too cold to take them off, even if all I’m wearing is a thin jacket and some torn pajama pants.

This is disgusting. I’m covered in dirt and these clothes are stained with red wine. Was I at some girl’s night in type thing? An adult sleepover? I take a closer look at myself, and finally realize I have scratches covering my arms and legs, and it looks like a dog or something viciously bit my right leg. What the fuck? I must be in shock; these wounds don’t even hurt. Oh god, is this what hypothermia feels like? I feel myself begin to panic, and instead close my eyes and breath deeply to clear my head. Gain control, girl. You’re an adult, you can figure out how to find a street name… oh, another pretty light! I wonder if I jump high, can I reach it? I jump. To my disappointment, I can’t reach it. Gravity, you win this round.

Not knowing what else to do, I look at the note again as I walk. It’s all smudged and covered in mud. It’s written sloppily in ink, some of which has smeared from getting wet, and stained with dirt. Focusing, I read the parts I can decipher aloud, though there is no one around to hear me. “Listen, buy some…uh…well, I can only make out the beginning letter: g. Okay, so the person needs to go buy something that starts with g. How helpful.” Squinting, my face leans closer to the paper to see better. “Then meet at Hazel Street. Blue house.” I hope there aren’t a lot of blue houses on Hazel Street.

There are many dark, silent houses on this street the path I’ve been walking has led to. I shiver, and not just from the cold. I’ve always found empty, dimly lit streets to be creepy. It’s like the houses are standing guard, and you just know someone is watching you from one of the windows. My eyes dart to the tell-tale green street sign: Main Street, how stereotypical. Not at all helpful in this current situation. A phone for a GPS or a map would really come in handy right about now. My eyes begin to sting, and quickly my thoughts bat down the feeling of wanting to cry. There will be time for that later. First, we must get to- wait.

Look! A light! A pretty, flickering flame in that window. A candle? Yes! Candle in the window! The window is open, I can smell it. Cupcakes and vanilla. I want to touch it.

My fist beats against my forehead as I try to stay focused on my task. Come on…uh…you. Me. Whatever. Focus, seriously. But touch it though. It’ll be quick. How can you even get to it? Window’s open, dumbass. Oh, yes, right. I can just climb through. I pause, collecting my thoughts. Did you just think of climbing through some random person’s window? Why don’t you just, oh, I don’t know… KNOCK ON THE DOOR like a normal person? Oh, right.

The knocking feels like it reverberates through the oppressively quiet night, though in reality it probably wasn’t that loud. I pound again, to be sure if anyone is home, they hear me. Someone better be home if they left a lit candle in the window. The painted white door opens; a bleary-eyed man stands before me. He, too, is wearing pajamas. He’s tall, stocky, built like a quarterback. Looks to be around 30 years old. His brown eyes widen as he processes me standing there.

“Uh…” he says, fumbling and seeming at a loss for words. “This isn’t Halloween; you’re off by about 16 days.”

“No, I’m not dressed up. I need help, can I come in?” I gesture towards the inside of his home, from what little I can see it seems to be a living room. It’s the room the candle is in.

He sniffs the air, seeming confused. Probably from my clothes. He suddenly looks frightened, like he doesn’t know what to do. “You…want to come in? Is that it?” his tone seems cautious.

“Yes, sir. That’s what I said. I just need to use your phone or something, please. I can’t remember who I am or…anything, really.” All this talking has made me realize my throat is very dry. I cough, and some more dirt comes out; I pivot to spit it away from him and the door. Can dirt stay in your throat? Won’t you suffocate?

His sudden gasp then clearing of his throat draws my attention back to him. “Look, just…uh, like, come inside and sit on the couch…actually, no, sit on a dining chair.” He stammers, quickly ushering me inside. It’s nice and warm in here. I can see the candle better, too.

I point to the candle, asking, “Can I see it? I want to hold it.”

He looks to where I’m pointing, perplexed. “Slow down, I can’t… I can’t understand you. Did you hurt your throat or something? Did you want a pen and paper to write down what you need?”

A pen and paper? Maybe the guy is partially deaf or something. It’s not like I’m whispering. I nod, and he disappears to grab them for me. He returns with a yellow notepad and a black ink pen. “Here, write on this. What do you need?”

I begin to write- “I want to see the candle.” I speak the words aloud as I write them, in case he needs to read lips or something.

He leans in, trying to read what I’ve written. “Um, sorry, it’s hard to read…candle? You wrote candle?”

I smile and nod my head vigorously. One of my teeth falls out. Wait, what? Whatever. Candle! I get to touch it! The man stares at me in horror. Frozen. I grab his arm and drag him to the window with me. I hear a cracking noise followed by his shriek of pain. I glance down to see my hand gripped around his arm, but there’s white now sticking out of the top, surrounded by punctured flesh and rivers of blood.

His arm is broken? I didn’t notice that before. I mumble out an apology and let him go. He’s sobbing, clutching his arm to his chest and staring at it in shock. I get behind him and push instead. He’s not giving me permission to touch the candle, and I really don’t want him to get mad at me. How dumb would it be to get arrested for something as stupid as touching someone’s candle without their consent? Well, that’s not going to happen to me. He’s going to let me touch it, one way or another.

I gently push him. He’s much lighter than he looks though, because he flies forward and trips, coming down hard and bashing his head against the corner of the coffee table. He groans but doesn’t try to stand up. He just whimpers, blood now gushing from his head.

Dude, you’re fine, head wounds bleed a lot. Angrily, I wrench him up from the ground and feel his shoulder pop out of socket. I shake him and it pops back in, painfully. “Let. Me. Touch. That. Damn. CANDLE!” I emphasize every word angrily. There is no way he can’t understand me now. I cough again, and more of my teeth and dirt pour from my mouth.

Fire, it’s so pretty. Pretty candle. Yes. My mind feels slower somehow. I absentmindedly scratch my head and twirl my hair from nervous excitement and come away with a giant lock of my hair intwined in my fingers. There are still bits of scalp attached. Huh, that’s weird. Maybe a doctor can glue that back on or something. Can’t worry about that. Focus.

The man seems to have vomited while I was distracted and is now crawling away towards the front door. “NO!” I growl. But my mouth doesn’t form words. More of a choked groan comes out. “Fine, let’s touch the candle together. I’ll share.” I mutter, still unable to make my vocal cords form words. It’s just muttering, nonsensical growling. I can even hear the dirt in my lungs create a wheezing effect from stale air rushing through it.

For how muscular he is, he sure can’t crawl very fast. I help him up and let him lean on me as we make our way to the window. He’s begging me to let him go, and I promise him that I will after I can hold that stupid, beautiful, lovely flame. It’s mesmerizing. I now understand the poems that talk about beautiful muses and lovers. They’re all just a metaphor for a tantalizing flame or light.

Finally, we arrive at our destination. I reach out eagerly, barely noticing I had lost my fingernails somewhere along the way. I grasp the heavy glass jar that cradles the wondrous light, and gingerly lift it from its perch. Yes, yes! Finally! Light! I smile and lose a couple more teeth. My hands bring the candle closer to me, so I can stare intently at the flickering, dancing flame. It’s amazing.

And then my index finger breaks off, and layers of the skin from my palm follow, sliding off like a glove. I go to catch it, and the sleeve of my jacket meets the flame. Instantly, the gasoline on my clothes catches fire. It doesn’t hurt. Well, not me anyway. The man doesn’t seem to be having too much fun right now. But that’s okay. Now we’re beautiful, too.

Pretty. Light.