by Paul Sating
Except Chikae.
He couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. How did you erase the sight of a man lying on the ground, burning to death? Nor did he forget his own failure to stop DeMarco from starting the fire in the first place or helping the man in the fallout of madness. It laid a heavy blanket of guilt and remorse on his mind even all these years later.
Chikae shook his head. The homeless man’s final moments were etched into his memory forever. But DeMarco hadn’t been. After that night, Chikae did everything he could to forget about DeMarco completely.
And he had.
Until this call.
He should have never picked up the phone.
DeMarco’s aunt wouldn’t call a dozen times on Christmas Eve to check in for the first time in twenty years. “Is everything okay?”
At the question, Aunt Gwen broke down. Chikae held the phone away from his ear as she wailed. Her reaction confirming something was wrong. He was ready to hear it. Over the years since the club fire, he’d followed everyone else’s lead and distanced himself from DeMarco. But it wasn’t without guilt.
When DeMarco’s aunt stopped crying, her tiny voice responded, “No. He’s dead.”
Chikae expected that much. There was no other reasonable explanation for calling someone on Christmas Eve from across the country. “Oh,” he stammered, not knowing what to say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
A few seconds of awkward sniffling from the other end. “I was wondering … if-if you knew anything about it?”
There. That was the real reason for the phone call. A drug deal gone bad? Some ridiculous turf war over who got to sell molly on which block? In the end, someone finally made him pay. “No. No,” he repeated, softer the second time. Then, morbid curiosity made him ask, “I haven’t spoken to DeMarco in years. Do you mind me asking what happened?”
“He was killed,” Aunt Gwen answered. “The police … they don’t have a lot of answers right now, but … the family, we’re reaching out to … to … anyone who knew him, to see if they have any information.”
“About what?”
“About what was going on in his life,” she answered. “It was … his death was pretty gruesome.”
Chikae didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want the details and didn’t want to get wrapped back up in DeMarco’s mess, but the question was on his lips before he could even process it. “How was it gruesome?”
A few deep breaths answered him. “He was tied up.” She began to cry, unable to calm herself. A pause and a number of deep breaths later, the words tumbled out. “They tied him to a tree in a nearby greenbelt and burned him alive. He was … Burned. Alive!”
Aunt Gwen howled. Chikae didn’t know what to say. He felt for the woman and DeMarco’s family, but it was difficult to feel anything for his old friend. DeMarco was the only person in the world who made him approach feeling hatred, even over the stabbing panic in the middle of his chest. DeMarco’s fate birthed the reality of karma. “I’m sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry for your loss. My thoughts are with you and your family.”
It sounded so robotic, so scripted. Chikae wasn’t sure what the woman wanted from him, but he knew what he wanted. He wanted off this phone call and to return to a life that did not include the memory of DeMarco. She was the only thing keeping him from that.
Aunt Gwen rotated between whimpered whispers and cries of anguish. It was so typical of DeMarco to hurt everyone in his life and around him. Even in death.
Muffled voices consorted on the other end of the phone line. Chikae couldn’t make out what was happening until a man spoke. His tone was stern. “You DeMarco’s friend?”
The combative nature, even in mourning, didn’t sit well with Chikae. He had no idea who the man was and if he was associated with DeMarco, Chikae was less ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. “A lifetime ago.”
There was a tight laugh as if his response humored this man. “Good, DeMarco was nothing but trouble.”
Chikae’s shoulders loosened.
“I’m Robert, Gwen’s husband,” the man introduced himself. “Listen, I won’t trouble you long. I know it’s Christmas Eve and all. I don’t know what happened between you and DeMarco, that boy was messed up in the head. We just wanted to reach out and let you know about his death.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Robert tsked. “It’s fine. Thank you for saying so. Listen, we wanted to reach out to you because DeMarco talked about you up until his death. Seems someone was troubling him and he was worried that you might be in trouble too.”
Chikae’s heart jumped. DeMarco ran with the wrong crowds. It wasn’t beyond reason to think his friend had pissed off the worst of Maryland’s worst. That didn’t explain why anyone in DeMarco’s circles would care about him. DeMarco ran with drugs and petty crime, Chikae didn’t. They lived in two different worlds, members of two distinct clubs of life, and had been for years now. The distance he kept from DeMarco should have broken all associations with his childhood friend.
“I’m sorry,” he began, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about. If DeMarco was in some kind of trouble, he—”
“You know how that boy was, always getting himself in the trouble, running with the wrong crowd. Grown ass man, acting like a teen. It was bound to happen.” More wailing in the background. Another covered phone receiver. After a few seconds, Robert came back. “But whatever it was, whoever it was, DeMarco was sure they were gunning for you too.”
Chikae wiped away a stream of perspiration. It had to be drugs. It had to be. The family was kind to call with their concerns, but they were mistaken.
He tried to lighten the mood, to relieve DeMarco’s family of feeling they had any responsibility for this or to him. “Well, I appreciate the phone call, I really do. But whatever DeMarco got himself into, I can assure you I had no association with it. I’m a family man, professional.”
It was a strange response and solicited an appropriate reaction from Robert. He was quiet on the other end of the phone line. Chikae was worried he’d offended the man who called to fulfill the family’s unselfish motivations in their moment of loss. He felt like an ass.
“That’s good for you,” Robert finally answered, “but be on your guard. Whoever was bothering DeMarco seemed pretty damned determined. This wasn’t an isolated thing. The last, hell, I don’t know, the last year or so of his life was a wreck. The man was always on edge. Paranoid. Seeing monsters and shadows where there were none. We actually tried to have him evaluated once and the sonofabitch ran away. We figured he was at that drug house on another month-long high or something. But he came back, swore he was clean and the family took him in. They always rescued him … right up until the end. But that last year? He acted strangely, I’ll tell you that much. Whoever wanted him dead really wanted him dead. And,” the voices in the background faded as if Robert was stepping into another room, “whoever it was fucked him up, son. Really fucked him up.”
Chikae used the crock of his elbow to wipe his forehead, running it over the top of his skull. The house felt like it was 1000°. He was being ridiculous. DeMarco got what he deserved in the end for a lifetime of abusing others. Though they were suffering, he couldn’t help them, the most recent victims of DeMarco’s narcissistic personality. Anger boiled inside him. Not at them, not even at the situation, but at DeMarco.
“What you mean?”
“They skinned him, son. Skinned and burned.”
Robert’s comment was a punch in the gut. An accidental “fuck” slipped.
“My thoughts exactly,” Robert laughed on the other end of the phone. It was an appropriate laugh, not too humored, not completely sad. The tone was gone. Robert was serious again. “We’re sorry about this, sorry about troubling you. Sorry about ruining your Christmas Eve. Gwen felt it was important for you to know because … you know …”
“Sir, did DeMarco ever mention anyone? You know, who he was afraid of?”
Robert scoff
ed. “Crazy talk, son. Nothing but crazy talk from that kid.”
Chikae swallowed hard. A sweat bead slunk its way down his spine toward the crack of his ass. “What did he say?”
A big sigh from Robert before the moment of madness. “He always talked about ‘the burning man’, son. He said the burning man was after him.” An awkward pause followed the statement. “Told you, it was crazy talk.”
But Chikae didn’t hear much of anything. The world was a blur, all sounds snuffed out beneath the cover of trauma.
The burning man.
He wanted nothing more than to hang up this phone call and pretend it never happened and wake up on Christmas morning with Sonia and Kendrick.
“Thank you, I appreciate that.” It was all he could mutter.
With that, they wished each other a merry holiday and hung up.
Chikae set the phone down on the coffee table and leaned back, letting himself go into deep thought. Typical, fucking DeMarco.
Even a world away, years removed from each other’s lives and beyond the grave, he still haunted Chikae.
He stood and shut off the fireplace. It was hot as hell in the house, so Chikae slid open the balcony door to allow the cool night breeze in. Looking out over the eternal blackness of the Pacific at night, Chikae reflected on his life, grateful for how far he’d come. He thought about DeMarco and the sad life he’d led. But he also thought, reveled, at the fact that he’d overcome that same environment. He’d broken away and not fallen into the traps DeMarco had.
He thought all these things, deeply.
So deeply that he didn’t notice the crackling of the fire until it was too late.
And then Chikae remembered.
He remembered DeMarco’s addiction to setting the world ablaze.
And he remembered the club.
His throat constricted. The sudden, choked breaths didn’t allow him to sob as he remembered doing nothing for the homeless man as he tried to fight his way out of the burning building, dying at the foot of the world.
The same burning man who stood in his living room.
Somewhere in his mind of madness, Chikae saw the burning man’s face, set ablaze by a fire that never died. The hulking presence filled the path between Chikae and his only escape.
From his toes to the top of his head, the burning man raged with the flames of the eternal fire. He took a step toward Chikae and small sparks floated off his body. His footfall thundered on the floor, leaving scorch marks with each step.
Chikae backed up, but there was nowhere else to go. The balcony and the drop to the ground was all that sat behind him.
The burning man stepped closer.
“Please,” Chikae begged. “Please. I didn’t do anything.”
The burning man stepped again. Closer. Reaching out. His fingers glowed yellow. Hot flames arced up, releasing sparks that floated in a slight, slow dance.
Step.
The wall of his balcony pressed against his back. Sonia and Kendrick were in the bedrooms, behind the burning man. Chikae needed to get to them. But the large form of the burning man blocked his path, filling the balcony door. A monstrosity of rage and pain.
There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run.
The burning man’s fiery hand grabbed Chikae’s throat, fire licked his face, searing his cheeks. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. His scorched throat was no longer able to open or close as he was silenced forever.
Before Chikae died, the burning man reached for his face. The sizzle of skin, the smell of burnt flesh, filled Chikae’s nose and ears.
The burning man’s fiery fingers melted into his cheek. Grabbing hold of skin, the burning man began to peel.
END
Slayride
Winter in the foothills of Colorado can be warmer and drier than expected, Sam Bollinger knew that. He’d grown up here. Even so, when the plane landed, he wasn’t sure the airline took him to the correct destination.
December in Colorado and no snow? Glancing out the airplane window, Denver looked more like Destin.
This was his first trip back to this part of the world in ... years? College took him away, job opportunities and love kept him away. Even the East Coast’s tightly-packed communities hadn’t pushed him back west. The coast was the center of his world now. Cluttered roads, filthy sidewalks, and people with nasty attitudes were the attributes of the place where his heart converged with the physical world. What he saw outside this small airplane window was a foreign land to him in more ways than one.
Everything was different now.
The trip to Denver was dropped into his life from the other end of a voice message. Two days ago, he ignored an unknown number and let it go to voicemail. On the coast you learned giving people more of yourself than they gave in return was a recipe for abuse. On the coast, even friends were held at an arm’s length.
Sam leaned his head back as the plane taxied to the gate, thinking about that call. It came from his mother. That in itself was surprising. He hadn’t heard from her in nearly three years. The last time they spoke she let him know how unhappy his choices made her—jobs, lifestyle, lovers. She spent more time arguing than listening. The desire to heal a broken family was her motivation, but he refused to tolerate it then and struggled to forgive her even now. Damn her insistence on having a reunified family. Deep down, his mother understood his motivations for staying out east, even if she kept them to herself to shield her husband. Their selfishness was to blame for the fractured family, nothing else.
That was the last time they spoke. Until she called to break his world.
His father was dead.
Sam closed his eyes, replaying the phone call in his head as his fellow travelers disembarked.
“Sam, this is your mom,” the voicemail had filled his small New York apartment from the phone speaker. Her shaking voice told Sam everything he needed to know in an instant. This wasn’t the hard voice who’d scolded him for ‘breaking her heart’ all those years ago. This voice belonged to a woman who’d aged overnight, balancing on the cusp of quitting life. “Your father … your father is dead. You need to come home. I need you to come home.”
And Sam did. All the harsh words, all the proclamations of betrayal, all the toxicity in their relationship was gone before he listened to the end of that short voice message. His father. Dead.
“Sir, is everything okay?” a soft, yet direct, voice pulled him out of his memories. A stewardess leaned across the open seat, annoyed concern peeking through her practiced smile. It’s time to get off my plane, her eyes screamed. Sam complied with her not-so-subtle demand. He hadn’t been thinking about getting up until the aisle cleared of the human cattle call. But the aisle was empty. Everyone was off the plane, except him.
As soon as he entered the gangway, Sam’s skin cracked in protest against the dehydrated air. Troubled thoughts prevented even a brief smile at the impact of the brown earth of the Mile High City. Living at sea level had its advantages—not walking around feeling like rice paper all day long was one of them.
Moving away from the clump of humanity at baggage claim, Sam called his mother. “Hey Mom, it’s me,” Sam said when she answered, keeping an eye out for his single bag. It wasn’t going to be a long stay, a few days at most, and then he needed to get back to New York. Back to his life. “I’m waiting on my bag, then I’ll pick up the rental car. I’ll be on my way soon, okay?”
“Okay Sam,” his mother replied. “Drive carefully.”
It was all she said.
Facing her was going to be laborious. That’s what happened when you disappointed those you loved.
“I will.” He hung up and headed toward the rental car desk. It was a long drive to Silver Plume, especially rush hour traffic. Denver, like most metropolitan areas, was a nightmare to navigate at times. A nightmare he didn’t feel like dealing with. Traveling always took a toll on him and being back West wasn’t helping. He’d already had a long couple of days, and he was hungry and needed a dam
n shower. Northern Denver did everything it could to slow his progress and frustrate him. Getting out beyond Lakeside was a feat of epic proportions and it was almost an hour and a half later when he finally made it through Applewood and gained elevation into the Rocky Mountains. By the time he reached Idaho Springs, the sun was setting behind the towering peaks.
The loss of daylight sapped his remaining energy. Interstate or not, he had to be careful on these winding roads. The highway that cut across Colorado was wide, but his exhaustion cut down on his mental sharpness. I should have taken an earlier flight.
But there was so much he was involved in, so many projects at work. Plus, his best friend, Ricardo, was getting married to Bobbie in two weeks. Sam intended on working on the speech on the flight since he didn’t seem to be able to get around to it any other time. But that didn’t happen either. And none of these distractions helped ease his trepidation about seeing his mother. Sleep was what he wanted, but comfort was what she needed.
And she needed to come first, for now.
It was going to be a long night.
He got off exit 226 and sighed as Silver Plume greeted him. Small town America was so soul-crushing.
The town wasn’t any different than the last time he saw it. But places like this never changed, tucked away in corners of the world, insulated against the way of life for the rest of humanity. Life here remained untouched. Unsoiled. And her people thought they were better for it. Sam shook his head as he turned onto Woodward Street, glad he escaped this place and her obsolete people.
“Oh, Sam,” his mother fell into his arms as soon as she saw him on the porch. The house was stale. She was alone, which was unexpected. Sam thought her friends would be keeping watch over her. Even his father’s ghost abandoned her.
Sam wrapped his arms around his mother. She felt smaller and smelled like decay. “Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
Bethany Bollinger backed away, holding her son at arm’s length. New creases seemed to spring up under her eyes as they held each other. When was the last time she showed any emotion except sorrow? This time, David had fallen to Goliath. A wave of guilt hammered him. Life had beaten down this poor woman. And all he’d thought about the entire way here was how he wasn’t ready to deal with her complaining.