by trentm32 » 12/27/2006, 10:55 am
well, finals and Christmas are behind me; and I finally had some time to finish up chapter three. dig it...
Chapter Three
“Thirty-Three Days Before The Night & St. Matthews: The Fire”
I slid my arm partway out the window of Chris’ faded red pick-up truck, and watched my hand as it glided back and forth, back and forth in the rushing wind. I could hear my thin, corduroy jacket ruffling as the breeze flew past it and into my face. It was the last warm day of November, and I was trying to soak it in as well as I could. I wasn’t doing too terribly bad, considering the circumstances.
“So, you don’t remember this place at all?” Chris asked me, glancing my way only momentarily before his eyes darted back to the road ahead. I thought for a few moments. I closed my eyes and tried as hard as I could to recall something, anything, about this place. I wished so bad that I could, even if it was just a glimpse.
I finally shook my head.
“Nope, not a thing.”
“Well, don’t worry about it, little brother; I can just barely remember it as it is.” I nodded slightly; I appreciated him trying to make me feel better. Once I had returned to watching my hand outside the window, I spotted a deer in the distance, and watched him as he watched me driving past. He almost looked somehow majestic, and probably would have were it not for the fact that one of his antlers was broken and jagged.
Once I was too far-gone to find him in the distance any longer, I returned my eyes to the barely paved little road unfolding itself immediately ahead of us. The truck seemed to always be bouncing over the light potholes dotting every inch of the road.
I could see the sun glimmering through from behind the trees, and I desperately hoped we made it before it finally sat. I wanted to see the place with some light still hanging in the air.
I suppose I was hoping that it might spark a memory, or at the least look somehow familiar to my foreign eyes.
After a few more minutes we came to a freshly painted stop sign where the road we were on came to an end, and the path split either to the left, or the right. At that Chris just sat there a moment at the sign, and stared at me. I was too busy looking off in the hills trying to find another deer to notice. When we hadn’t moved for al little while longer, I finally looked over at him.
“Hey, what’s the hold up?” Chris just rolled his eyes.
“Well, little brother; I was going to just look at the directions myself to figure out where to go, but the last time I checked they were in your pocket—isn’t that right my trusted navigator.” I blushed a little, and rolled my eyes as I dug in my pocket looking for the crisply folded white piece of paper. After a couple of seconds I finally found it.
“Well, my dear brother,” I said, “MapQuest seems to think that taking a left would probably be our best course of action; seeing as if we were to take a right we’d being going in the wrong direction.” Chris just chuckled,
“Left it is.”
Once we made the turn, we left behind the glories of the barely paved, pothole-laden road; and found ourselves on the barely passable one-lane gravel road, surrounded by what must have been four-foot ditches on both sides.
We took it slow, and watched as the forest of trees and brush closed in around us as we went deeper into the woods. Once we had pushed through a little while longer, I looked over to Chris and asked,
“Are you sure you got the address right?” He nodded, as he shot a look over toward me.
“As far as I know it is, this is the one I dug out of the hospital records. Now, if they had it wrong to begin with…” Chris smiled at me, “Then we’re screwed.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
After another minute I was beginning to worry we had gone the wrong way, so I pulled the neatly folded piece of paper back out of my pocket.
“Two and a half miles,” I said aloud, Chris nodded back at me.
“Should be seeing it anytime now then, little brother.” I tried to smile. A knot had been building in my stomach since we had hit gotten on the gravel road, and the suspense was killing me to see this place. I don’t even know why I was so excited.
In the distance I could see some of the last rays of the sun shimmering off an old, rusting mailbox in a sharp, left turn. It had to be it. Chris began slowing the truck down, and once we made it to the turn we pulled up beside the postbox. Across the street there was an old trailer, with a Firebird parked in front underneath a large oak tree.
I quickly returned my eyes back to the mailbox, to read the chipped, red painted letters from it’s side.
“One Hundred, Malcolm Road.” I swallowed hard. This was it. After spending a moment trying to prepare myself, I finally raised my eyes toward the structure, hoping to see something that would rekindle some long-forgotten dream.
An old, dirty brick house rested upon the hill. It had a black-shingled roof, patched in places with darker black areas. The windows had been boarded up with cracking plywood; the door was brown wood, and looked heavy. A small, wrap around porch was clinging desperately to it’s front. At the side of the house I could see what looked to be two mangled together bicycles; the chains were rusted through, and the tires rotted to mud. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had been ours when we were young.
I felt like I had never seen this house before in my life. I looked over toward Chris and he just lowered his head. I knew at once that he didn’t share my ignorance.
We slowly got out of the truck, and started our trek up the small hill. It was covered in weeds, and dotted with rocks and scattered garbage. After a couple of moments I looked at Chris.
“Why do you want to come here so badly?” I asked. He stopped walking, and thought for a second.
“You’re one to ask, little brother. You’re here, too.” He had a point, I suppose when you think about it, it’s something that everybody seems to want to know. I just lowered my head, and continued walking toward the door.
The porch moaned hard as we stepped up on it. We both stood in front of the door, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
“Come on, let’s have a look around first,” Chris finally said, as he led the way around to the side of the house. The windows on the sides were boarded up as well, and after a few steps around the corner the little wooden porch just ran itself into the dirt of the higher ground at the sides.
Attached to the back of the house, in what looked to be a small, makeshift addition built onto the backdoor, was a dusty, old gas generator. Chris smiled when he saw it.
“I can’t believe this thing is actually still here,” Chris exclaimed. I gave him a confused look.
“They never ran any power lines out here, so the electricity for the house came from this,” he said; while pointing at the extraordinarily old machine that was lying in front of us.
“Come on, give me a hand,” and at that Chris bounded back toward the truck. I followed suit, to find he had stowed a fairly large, yellow gas jug on the back of the truck, filled to the brim. I helped him carry it back toward the generator, as we watched the last shreds of sunlight begin slipping away toward the hills in the distance.
When we had made it back around to the back of the house, Chris reached down and tried to dust off what he could of the generator; so that we could actually see how to turn the thing on. After a few moments of squinting and fumbling, he finally found the cap we needed to remove to put the gas inside. The two of us hoisted the massive jug into the air, and proceeded to pour as much as possible into the spout; without spilling too, terribly much in the process.
Once the jug had given up it’s last gasp of fuel, Chris began fumbling around again to try and see if the thing would actually run. Knowing Chris, I figured that if he did actually get it on, it was at least going to take a while; so I picked up the empty fuel jug and carried it back to the truck.
After I had tossed it on the pick-up bed, I looked back up toward the house. The sun was all but gone, and I could only faintly make out the structures’ outline against the darkened sky behind it. I shifted in my thin jacket a bit, as the fading warmth in the air began to give way to the autumn winds. I opened up the passenger door to the truck, and fumbled around in the glove compartment until my hands felt something small, cool, and metal: Chris’ old flashlight.
I clicked the button on the bottom, but nothing happened. After a few hard knocks in my fist, a faint light flickered through the glass. I could see the bulb inside straining for every ounce. I shined it to the ground, and made my way back up the hill.
I walked until I made it to the porch. I shined the light up toward the door, then all around the front of the house.
I couldn’t remember any of it. I hated that I was too young.
I took the three steps to the threshold slowly, and looked around to see if I could see Chris. He was still in the generator room; I could hear him fumbling around and mumbling directions to himself, over and over again. He had one of those repetitive personalities.
I walked the handful of steps back over to the doorway, and slowly reached my hand down toward the metal doorknob. It was freezing to the touch. I jiggled it lightly, but nothing happened. I swallowed hard, and proceeded to turn the doorknob even harder; until I felt it click loudly under my hand. A chill shot through my back.
I pushed the door open just enough to fit my thin frame through. As I crossed inside, my feet kicked dried, rotting leaves and old garbage out of the way. The light was getting dimmer, and I could barely make out fresh graffiti on the walls, spray painted names of lovers, and games of tic-tac-toe scattered as far as the eye could see. There were candles, unlit, scattered all around the small den. I suppose in the process of all these years of abandonment, the place had become a haven for teenage parties. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what it must have looked like all of those years ago. I finally got a picture in my head, but when I opened my eyes it was just the same thing. I let out a sigh under my breath.
I slowly made my way over to a Catholic saint’s candle sitting alone on a wooden stool in the middle of the room. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lighter. After a few vain strikes, a flame finally sparked from the cool steel. I slowly reached down to the wick, and just as began to lean down, the small flashlight in my hand faded to black, and the darkness filled the room again.
With the windows boarded up, there wasn’t a shred of light except the lighter shaking lightly in my hand. As I touched the flame to the wick, a thunderous roar erupted from the back of the house. Suddenly the room was bathed in light, and as I jerked my arm up, I knocked the candle I was lighting hard to the tile floor. I could barely hear the thin glass shatter over the noise. My heart was racing as I heard Chris shout out to me,
“I got it! I got it running, little brother!”
I started laughing aloud, and was barely able to gain my composure as he walked in from the back room, entering through the enclosed back door. I raised my head to find a rusted chandelier with dusty light bulbs resting inside it. A lamp in the corner was shining on, as well. Chris just looked around the room, and slowly shook his head.
“Wow. This place sure has changed a lot.” I nodded back at him and sighed,
“I kind of figured,” was all I could say. Chris just smiled at me,
“It wasn’t anything great, you know; but I just remember it being…nice.” I couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to think that I used to have a nice home when I was younger, a nice home with parents. I wished even more that I had been old enough to still have those memories.
“Can, can you remember them?” I stared at Chris as I said the words. He thought for a few moments.
“Barely,” he finally said. “But not enough to matter. It’s funny that I can remember this, our house, so well…but, but I can barely remember our parents faces.” I could see a small tear forming in the corner of his eye. I tried to fake a smile for him. We just stood there for a while, wishing desperately that we had found something important here, but we both knew it was nothing more than a beat-up old house.
“It’s alright, big brother,” I finally said, as I put my arm around his shoulder. He couldn’t help but laugh a bit. I scanned my eyes around the abused walls and cracking tile floor until I found the hallway.
“Hey,” I said, “you wouldn’t happen to know which room was ours, would you.” A big grin spread across his face. He started walking down the hallway, all the way to the final room there. He pushed the light, hollow door open, and reached inside and clicked a light switch on.
I closed my eyes, and hoped that there would be something, anything in there that would remind me of home. I opened my eyes to find a stack of empty beer cans piled into the corner of a small room with peeling paint. There was a faded, large red mark on the wall behind the cans. Chris walked over to it, and rubbed his hand across it.
“This is where we first figured out what crayons did,” he said, barely able to finish the sentence as he started laughing at it’s end. Sad laughter, but at least it was laughter.
“I had always thought that was just something I had made up in my mind, because I didn’t have any real childhood memories; well, any memories before we were there,” he said. “But, I guess that it’s real.” He pulled the little silver cross that he always wore out from under his shirt, and kissed it lightly.
We stood in there a while, making idle small talk about what it may have been like growing up here; Chris trickling in tiny, vague details that he barely held onto.
I tried to imagine our mother cooking us dinner there; Chris and I playing with crayons on the wall—apparently—waiting for her to yell for us to come eat dinner. I never could see her face in my mind, and I faintly began to smell smoke from the kitchen, it almost seemed real as I tried to imagine her voice—the turkey in the oven was just starting to burn.
I took another breath and realized that it was real. The smoke was real. A loud pop came echoing through the house, it sounded like it came from the back.
A low fog quickly began trickling through the crack in the bottom of the door; I looked over to Chris and saw him notice it at about the same time I was. I rushed over to the door and shoved it open. A cloud of smoke poured into the room. I tried to gasp in a breath of air, but all I seemed to find was hot smoke and ash.
My eyes were burning, and I could barely make out the shadow where the door was six feet in front of my face. I felt Chris grab my arm, and he started trying to lead the way out. Always the big brother.
“Hold on, Jake; I’m going to get us out of here,” he said. I just held onto his arm and hoped he was right.
The smoke swirled around us like ghosts in a boiling summer night. The garbage and dried leaves on the floor went up in seconds, and I could feel the heat quickly warming my feet in my shoes. I stretched my toes, and wished I could see. Chris was pulling me so hard; I didn’t even know what was happening as my feet slid out from under me, catching on what I can only guess is probably the stool that was in the center of the living room. When I cut my hand on the broken glass from the candle, I was sure of it.
Our hands came apart, and Chris started to disappear as a shadow in the night. After a moment I heard him start shouting.
“Jake, where are you!” I tried to open my mouth, but all I could do was cough. I started flailing my arms wildly until I finally caught hold of something.
“There you are,” I heard Chris grunt as he pulled on my arm to lift me from the ground. He put his arm around my shoulder, and started walking as fast as he could carry me toward what I desperately hoped was the door.
My hopes began crashing down when I started to hear Chris fumbling his hands against the wall, franticly trying to find the door. He shoved me to the floor, and told me to breath shallow. All I could hear was Chris coughing, and stomping around. My eyes were burning, and every breath I took became more and more choked with smoke.
After a few more seconds I didn’t hear Chris coughing anymore.
“Chris…Chris!” I started shouting and coughing, grey tears streaked my cheeks as I began reaching around the floor trying to find him. My eyes hurt so much that I finally just closed them as I groped at thick air and nothingness.
Suddenly I felt someone pick me up from behind. It was a hard jerk, and I could feel smooth, hard, slick fabric against my back. A voice broke through the silence, and a cool shudder shot through my body, even through the burning smoke and heat.
“Just hold on,” he said. His voice was deep and thick. I was trying to tell him to get Chris, but all I could do was cough. I just closed my eyes, and moved my legs as he led me. Once I felt the air cool, and a breeze on my face, I tried to take in a deep breath to speak.
As soon as I was coherent again, I raised my head to see a volunteer fireman, all alone, standing over me. I tried to speak again,
“My brother,” I said. “My brother is still inside.” His face grew serious again. He pulled his helmet back over his eyes.
“You stay here,” he said, as he broke into a dead run heading back into the house. I finally caught my breath, and sat upright and waited for him to come out. I started counting the seconds in my mind. My whole body was shaking, and the air felt cold around me. The grey tears on my cheeks began to chill my face.
As I waited, holding my breath without even knowing, my eyes drifted to the house across the street. It was then that I noticed the “Volunteer Fire Dept.” sticker plastered proudly on the back of the Firebird in the yard. I exhaled.
I heard coughing coming from the house, and I turned around to see this man—well, from my blurry eyes it was more like a yellow shape—half carrying, and half dragging, my big brother out through the front door. I could hear the man gasping for air as he made it back outside.
Chris wasn’t moving at all.
The man laid him on the ground, tilted Chris’ head back, and began doing CPR. I couldn’t’ even move; I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there under my tree, and watched all of this develop in front of me like some horrible dream. I wished so badly that I could wake up.
After just a few moments Chris’ arm jerked, and a second later he began coughing. My heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. The man helped him set up, and after a prolonged period of coughing and spitting; Chris finally opened his eyes and looked at me.
He looked empty, disappointed. I smiled at him, and after a few moments he confusedly tried to smile back. Once I regained some strength, I walked slowly over to him and sat down on the cool ground beside him. I could feel the heat from the fire blistering my face.
I looked up to see the house engulfed in flames. The home we grew up in, the home I couldn’t remember. It was almost as if it had imploded into a whirlwind of paint and ash.
I could hear the fireman talking on his radio still barely able to speak, and the faint droning of sirens was somewhere in the distance; just out of reach. I looked back at Chris to find him looking at me. He looked so sullen. He just stared at me for a few more moments. Finally, he spoke.
“It was wrong,” was all he said.
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.
<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>