Feathers Above Fire

Everything was grey, solid, and sharp. The walls were abrasive concrete that you didn't want to brush against. The garage was lined with boxes and mechanical equipment. The door sealed itself against the floor to prevent the winter air from intruding. There was a moon beyond it all, out of reach. Above the garage, a two-bedroom apartment quietly sat, aside from the dog's relaxed breathing coming from the bed's tan sheets.

A lime green and black motorcycle sat in the center of the garage, surrounded by spray paint cans and tools. I sat on a makeshift chair with my sketchbook in my lap and a small heater behind me. He was holding a silver tool, twisting a bolt on the bike, his white shirt splattered with various oil stains. His eyes pierced through the air, the color and intensity of a tree viper. A chime penetrated the silence, and his eyes shifted towards his phone. He put the wrench down, and an unnatural light illuminated his face.

"Shit," he sighed.

"What?" I looked away from him.

"This girl I went to rehab with OD'd.

"Oh," I said.

His gaze struck mine and he put his phone down. "Oh?"

"I mean, I'm sorry," the words clumsily fell from my mouth.

"My friend died, and you're just going to say, 'oh'?"

The blank page of the book in my lap engulfed me.

"I'm sorry, I just. . . I'm not sure what to say."

"So now this is about you?" He let out a cynical scoff.

I stumbled into his eyes.

"No! I just, I didn't know what to say, I'm sorry." My heart tried to break free from my chest.

"Alright. I'm tired of you not saying what you mean, be straight with me." He turned and picked up the wrench.

I opened my lips, fearing how my words could be wrong again. If I said nothing, I was rude. If I said anything, I was criticized. Each time I spoke, he would slither in-between the lines.

He harshly twisted the wrench against the bolt. A spark fell, and everything became orange. His body jumped back, and he quickly unsealed the garage door. There was a black cart filled with spray cans. I pushed it as far as I could away from the fire.

"Go get water!" He was trying to stomp out part of it, but it was slowly gaining traction on his pant leg.

I ran up the stairs and into the kitchen. The water seemed to drip while it poured. I ran down and handed the pot to him.

"This isn't working. We need a blanket or something."

I ran back up the stairs in search of a spare blanket. The dog was sleeping in the room above the fire before being roused by the commotion. I remembered that there was a battery he was working with close to the fire. I frantically grabbed the comforter off the bed and ran back into the cold, suddenly bright night.

The orange and yellow had flowed from the garage onto the grass of the backyard. Smoke rolled off of him. He dropped and began rolling on the ground.

"My pants!" he rolled back and forth, and I stood helplessly, watching, quietly like I always did. The battery.

I turned and cautiously stepped into the garage while he recovered himself and began smothering the flames with the blanket. I lunged for the battery to get it away from the fire. Black melted into the skin on my hands. The flames had been too close, slowly eroding it. Burning was a familiar pain to me. I continued into the backyard and silently let it fall onto the ground. He made the orange disappear, and a patch of grass was no longer green.

My hands felt like they were continuously being stung. I ran upstairs into the bathroom to get a better look at them. The creaky stairs remained silent while I ran up them. The dog's paws against the wooden floor were silent. There was only the stinging and silence.

I faced my palms up and saw black scattered and spread like a paste that had been embedded in my skin. I took a breath and tried to wash them with soap. It was deeper than I wanted to accept.

Without a warning of footsteps, he appeared next to me.

"Are you crazy? You shouldn't have picked that up!" He grabbed my wrists to examine my hands.

"It isn't that bad," I looked away.

"Not that bad? Kelsey, look at them!" There were splotches of foreign darkness beginning to become encircled by red.

"This is going to hurt, but come over here," he gestured towards the sink and reached for the sponge. I clenched my teeth together while he scrubbed my skin.

"We're going to have to go to the store to get something," he put the sponge down.

"Is anything open?" I asked.

"That supermarket down the street is open all night."

"Ok," my eyes gravitated up to his, two spots of grass with darkness in the middle.

We were covered in oil stains and ashes as we headed down the stairs.

"We'll be back soon," he said to the dog, who was looking down at us from the top.

He stepped ahead towards the car, and I closed the door behind me. The coldness of the air soothed my skin. I stepped forward onto the driveway. A succession of a bird call reached through the space between us and pulled my attention into a tree. It was hard to make out what it was, it looked like a blob attached to a branch, but I knew that call.

The barn owl swiveled its head around like the idea of what was and what could never be twisting through my chest.

"What are you doing? Let's go," he said from the car.

I looked away from the owl to him. My chest tore apart and rose into the green of his pinpoint eyes.

There would only be fires.