Red Hot

“The smoke is what I remember most. Coughing, gagging, spitting. I couldn’t breathe.

My eyes stinging, squinting, weeping. I couldn’t see.

My voice shaking, breaking, cracking. I couldn’t call for her.

Have you ever heard a fire? Really listened to it? They say fires snap. Fires roar. Fires sputter. But that is not what fires do. Fires laugh as your body rushes to the floor in a desperate attempt to suck in air that hasn’t been contaminated by their black billows. Fire sings as your panicked lungs heave, trying to pull, pull, pull in anything salvageable to ease the tightness in your chest. Fire howls as your weak, trembling hand reaches for her dainty wrist.

Rising heat will turn Italian stained glass windows into molten hail drops falling around you, sizzling while they roll across your face, leaving a trail of popping wet blisters where smooth unmarked skin used to be. Petrified wooden handrails from Japan snap and decay to ash. They were made to be sturdy handholds, but grabbing them in your panic will deglove the skin from your hand, leaving behind serum and scalding flesh. African throw rugs crinkle and smolder. The intricate weaving of their red and black threads match the red and black patchwork that is now your new skin. Flames prance down the hallway of the home you worked so hard to build. Their tongues lick the walls, the tapestries, the carpet, delighting in their chaotic destruction. The home that held the memories of travels and experience disappears.

Have you ever watched flames? They don’t blaze. There is no warmth or comfort from a flame. Do you know what flames do? Flames dance joyfully over your wife’s still body while you are flat on the floor hearing the floorboards weaken underneath you. They waltz down her upturned back as vomit rises from the pit of your stomach, forcing saliva and acid to spew from your mouth, burning your nose at its desperate escape, pressure building, released only by the spillage of tears down your cheeks.

I apologize, this conversation is heavy for a first date. I would love to know more about you. Where you are from, the places you’ve gone, the things you have seen, but first, may I touch your hair? It’s soft, golden, wavy and long just like hers used to be.

No, you’re right, I shouldn’t. I apologize. I’m moving too fast.

I know I told you we would eat but I didn’t realize there were no vegetarian options at this restaurant. I can’t eat meat. The smell reminds me of the charring of her flesh. I lose my appetite when I see bones. You would too if the last bones you saw glistened under the remains of your chandelier while the skin melted and dripped to the floor.

Let’s compromise with a drink. No, not a glass of merlot. I can’t drink red wine. You wouldn’t either if you saw how closely it resembles a boiling pool of blood growing in depth and width underneath golden locks. I vividly recall the rising steam wafting over her crushed skull as the pool gurgled and hissed. A crushed skull caused by a crumbling seventeenth century Irish mantelpiece. I always thought that mantelpiece was indestructible but it could not survive a single attack from starving flames.

The mantelpiece could be a symbol of our connection, hers and mine. Our relationship was a fortress, one I thought impenetrable. We were solid, strong, indestructible. At first.

Of course I regret what I did. Undoubtedly I am sorry. I did not consider the permanence of my actions. Anger guided my hands as I poured out the gasoline. Hatred lit the match. Lust for revenge is what forced my steady fingers to loosen their grip, letting the match fall. So yes, I certainly have remorse for my actions. After all, it was only her I wanted to set fire to, not the house.

I apologize, I didn’t mean to ramble. Please tell me about yourself.”