Smoke

“In and of itself, nothing really matters. What matters is that nothing is ever “‘in and of itself.’"



“The strength of your memory dictates the size of your reality. And since objective reality is fixed, all we can do is try to experience - to consume - as much of that fixed reality as possible. This can only be done by living in the moment (which I never do) or by exhaustively filing away former moments for later recall (which I do all the time).”



–Chuck Klosterman, Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs



 

Chapter Five: Solipsistic Reunion







 

Superheroes exist is the first thing you think.



Matt shows you fire. Not fire as in how to build one or fire as in a euphemism for sex but fire as in he is Prometheus reborn. He can wield it like a cop can wield a gun but with more grace and less fear.



And of course you’re not surprised. And not even that surprises you.



He whips out a butane lighter, one of those silver ones you flick open, and says, “Watch this.”



He gestures to make the flame dance higher and brighter. At first, it could be a mere pyrotechnic deception. But then he cups the flame, as if holding an injured bird. He makes a fist, and the flame disappears, unmarred skin where it used to be when he uncurls his fingers.



“Tada,” he says, smiling that aslant way you’ll always maintain you dislike.



He unlatches the lighter again, with a panache like a magician’s, and you’re reminded of his ego.



He wields the fire with his ego! And some part of your brain is distantly aware of how little sense such a thought makes but you don’t care he just set scraps of paper on fire without touching them with the lighter or his hands. He makes a motion like he’s shoving the flames resting against his skin (or just above it?) against the papers on the concrete of his backyard. They pour onto them like water.



Your brain can’t wrap around fire being like water.



It’s like seeing magic that you know is really magic, and you wonder how this never came up in intoxicated conversation before.

 

“Sweet, right?” he says. You watch the fire consume.



“Amazing. How do you do it?”



“I can’t tell you all my secrets in one night.” He winks, half his face illuminated by the porch light and the other half blanketed by darkness. 



He burns more scraps of paper, and you stay awake through the night, lying across decrepit lawn chairs and staring as he holds a small flame between his thumb and forefinger.



Dawn breaks across the sky in purples and blues when you finally fall asleep.



--



You punch your hand through a window, the one next to your desk.



The glass crumbles, and you stare at your knuckles after, all anger drained out. You’re only a sieve. There is blood, mostly red skin, and you stare at it. You haven’t seen your own blood in a long time. Is there a difference between yours and theirs?



Shards of glass stick out of your hand, some of them standing straight, and nausea rolls through you, the feeling that you might tip forward.



Fuck.



You go into the bathroom, your other hand catching any falling drops. Turn on the tap, rinse away the blood. Swallow. You’ll have to pull out the pieces.



Evidently, special breathing doesn’t chase away the terrifying. Chanting phrases in a language you don’t even know to a goddess you don’t believe in doesn’t prevent the insidious from creeping in.



Jia-li Ming is wrong.



Om Tare Tuttare Ture

Vise-bhyo Raksam Kuru Swaha



Om Tare Tuttare Ture Sarva

Vighne-bhyo Raksam Kuru Swaha



You’d recited the phrases everyday, written them on pieces of paper and placed them on your bedside table, put papers in your pockets to wear everywhere. As instructed. You’d practiced the “tortoise breath” to “stablize your Qi by closing the leaks first.”



Maybe if you aimed to ward off dirty looks from your neighbor it would’ve worked.



You extract one shard of glass, the largest one, grit your teeth, and the blood comes spilling out, a small river. Grab a hand towel, apply pressure.



Shouldn’t have done that. Should probably go to the ER.



The red spreads like a fire, soaking through gray.



Shit.



The doorbell rings, you jolt nearly out of your skin. You grab your keys, wallet, speed walk to the door. You have to balance the towel on your hand to get it open and what the fuck.



"Before you slam the door in my face, let me say one thing whoa what the fuck happened to you?" River says.



"What does it look like happened? You have a car?"



"Yeah. Are you okay?"



"Get me to a hospital."



The ride to the emergency room seems to stretch longer than eight minutes. You direct him, and you aren't careful about where your hand happens to hover when fluid drips from it.



He glances at your hand as if it's grown a head of its own, and you count the minutes, adjust the towel as needed, continue applying pressure.



--



"You're lucky you didn't nick a vein, you know. It could've been a lot worse," the doctor says in one of those ER cubicles separated by curtains. He's wearing a gold chain around his neck, the end tucked under his scrubs, his dark hair slicked back.



Anything “could be worse.”



He looks like Fonzi with his hair slicked back like that.



Dr. Fonz asks if you meant to hurt yourself. You scoff. River looks at you like he wants to know the answer to that question himself, his mouth morphing into a bone-pale, thin line.



"No, I didn't. Just lost control."



There's a space between the curtains where a nurse hurries in and out, bringing supplies for stitching. A man walks back and forth beyond this space. His hairless pate would shine under the fluorescent lights if he weren’t there-but-not, you think. His body carries rolls of weight, and you can see his ass where the hospital gown doesn't fasten.



What a way to haunt.



You want to ask what got him. There are no bloody injuries, no severed limbs, no gunshot wounds, no decimated skin. He obviously didn't have cancer.



And you've noticed it isn't freezing, beyond the normal hospital cold. All you hear is the clatter of people walking and running by, talking, expressing their pain. You look through the gap between the curtains at the clock. No movement of the hands.



Is it the chakra healing crap you'd been doing that’s changing things? And why is River here?



He doesn't look away from you, even when you follow ass man with your eyes, over and over.



Sometimes dead train wrecks are easier to look at than breathing people.



--



"You're not coming inside," you say, after River parks his Jeep in your driveway.



"Will you just hear me out?"



"Fuck off." You open the passenger door, set your foot down, watch him get out, jog around the car, and grab the door. A staring contest ensues (like ones when you were five and he was ten, clad in overalls and big glasses; he’d place his fists on his hips, and you’d always cheat by making fish faces, but this isn’t the same, not at all. They might as well have been a millennia ago for how similar they aren't to this one).



"What do you want?" you ask.



"I know that I don't deserve it, and I don't think you should ever actually give it to me, but what I want is your forgiveness. And I won't talk like this again, after this conversation, because I know how much you hate brutal honesty about what you'd rather not think about. I need to know that I at least tried." He squats, keeps his hold on the side of the door.



"I'd punch you in the face if I didn't just get stitches in my fucking hand."



He chuckles, and lines crease at the corners of his eyes, crow’s feet like your father’s. He looks like him, with his stubble and big nose, eyes like the way coffee looks after you put enough cream in it. He stands and steps back, opening the door the rest of the way. You rise, cross your arms as best you can with your aching hand. 



“You’re still a cunt,” you say. “Taking me to the hospital doesn’t change that. Nor does feeling guilt.”



"You haven't changed. That's good. Now let's talk about your gift. I'm sure you're wondering about the frightening things you're seeing."

------

Diza: I'm glad you were pleasantly surprised! To be completely honest, upon completion of the first chapter I wasn't entirely sure where I would go with this, but now I've got it planned out. I know I should change the summary, but I'm awful at writing them lol. I'll work on writing a new one.

Lisa: I hope this chapter answered at least one of your questions. As for the other questions, well, I think they'll be answered in the next couple chapters :) Brody doesn't believe he needs Prozac and a good therapist. He believes he needs divine intervention ha.

Thanks for reading!