That's my boy
American son
Hope I'm not to blame when he gets the idea to buy a gun
That's our boy
America's gone
Hope we're not to blame when he gets the idea to kill someone
-That's my Boy by VAST
I flicked the lighter on, stared into the flame. Watched the small pool of light illuminate the room for a few seconds. The zone of burning gases and fine matter suspended in the rapidly combusting air at the tip of the lighter, glowing and burning. I flicked it off and it disappeared. Fucking intriguing. For cigs, I carried matches, but with lighters you had the power to light the flame and then kill it, and revive it again, all with the flick of a finger. It was playing with fire and playing god, rolled together into a neat silver box filled with butane.
The chair I was occupying was decrepit. The god-awful floral fabric, pulled taught around mildew furniture stuffing, would probably light up in a second. I could light myself a flaming thrown. Or roll up my sleeves and flick open the lighter again over my wrists, letting the hot flame lick at my skin, charring the skin and smell my hair singeing.
I got these strange urges all the time, to burn everything. When I started smoking, all those years ago, it wasn't because I wanted to look tough like all the other little assholes on the playground. It was because I liked fire. Anyway, I'm in hell. And if I picked up one thing from church and religion before I abandoned the entire idea as bullshit, it's that hell is supposed to be burning.
The world is too flammable for an incendiary like me. Shit, maybe it's not the world I wanna burn so badly. Maybe it's just my body.
I glanced around the dimly lit, shadowy room. Typical cheap motel room, walls papered in putrid, floral printed sin and carpeted in tan shag carpeting that smelled like mildew. Two worn-out old armchairs, a table, and a large window with the dark shades pulled around it. A California King size bed in the middle of the room, sheets and ancient quilt wrinkled at the bottom. Ironic; this sure as hell wasn't California.
Bad things have happened here. You could just tell. Shit, bad things have happened everywhere, but every now and then you'll accidentally stumble across a place that just reeks of rot and death. The whole place smelled like a god damn sanatorium.
The only light came from the light on in the bathroom, the crack in the tightly closed curtains, and the burning ember of the cigarette in the fingers of the blonde girl, sitting in a threadbare armchair, the curves of her face barely visible in the dark as she blew out a puff of smoke in the general direction of the lean, catlike boy lounging against the wall. The girl who gets down on her knees for me, not because she believes I am god, but because she knows I'm the devil, and pleasuring the devil will make her stay here in hell enjoyable. The boy is a king of sorts. Not my king, course, because dammit, if I wanted to be the king of hell I would have claimed the position. But I didn't want that epithet.
"Sylvia." I heard the boy's voice, rough and deep, in the silent room. His voice was the auditory representation of thick, black tar dripping onto hot pavement, and his words had a greasy, unnerving quality that had nothing to do with the amount of oil he put in his hair. I never much liked hearing that deep, slimy voice in the dark, and I liked it even less after that certain encounter a few months ago.
"What, Tim?" The girl in the chair asked. "What do you want now?" Even in exhaustion, she managed to put forth an air of hostility.
Tim leaned over her, stretching his slender frame over the threadbare armchair, hands pinning her wrists to the chair arms, face inches above hers. I watched her jaw clench, and saw her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly in her leather jacket. It took a lot to scare Sylvia, but Tim was intimidating at the best of times. She was never one to show weakness, though; fear was something she hid admirably well.
"Get your hand off of me." She commanded calmly, her voice loud in the dark.
"Don't be difficult, doll." He said it amiably enough, but it was clear in the tone of his voice that he meant business.
"What the hell do you want, Tim?"
"I got two ounces of smack and I need it gone by Saturday." He let go of her wrists and stood up, leaning again against the wall.
"You're letting me deal alone now?" Mock surprise filled her voice. "Finally decided to trust me or something?"
"Take Angela with you. Winston's got other engagements tonight."
"Engagements?" She raised an eyebrow. "What sorta engagements?"
"None of your business." Tim answered coolly.
"Sorta is, though, seeing as he's my boyfriend." Sylvia blew another puff of smoke in Tim's direction and turned around to face me, her eyebrows raised.
"We've got some things to sort out with the Brumley boys, Sylvia, if you've gotta know." I sighed, locking my eyes on hers in a dare to ask just what it was we needed to sort out. She glared back and shut up.
Tim leaned against the window and parted the curtains, letting a thin shaft of pale morning light fall over the dark room.
"Make the bed." Tim commanded. "We were never here."
"Why do we have to make the bed?" Sylvia crossed her arms over her chest.
"You fuck in the bed, you make the bed, hon. I don't make the rules."
"Make the damn bed, Sylvia." I muttered. "We gotta book it."
"You could help me." She spat out bitterly.
"That's women's work."
"Fuck you, Dallas."
"Yeah, sweetheart. You too." I sighed, too tired to pick a fight.
She flipped me the bird and yanked the quilt from the bottom of the bed, sloppily smoothing it over the sheets and pushing the pillows to the headboard. Tim dropped the singed butt of his cigarette into the pop bottle on the table, the burning embers sizzling as it dropped into the half inch of brown liquid left in the bottom.
"Is she gonna wake up anytime soon?" Tim jerked his thumb in the direction of the floor by the bed. I glanced down. The girl lay on her back on the dirty shag carpet in the dim shadow of the bed, arms flung out to the sides with her palms up, facing the ceiling. Her eyes were closed, lips white and skin pale, blonde curly hair splayed out around her head like a halo, her skinny legs sticking out strait from her skirt like a toy soldier.
"Sandy?" Sylvia called quietly. She dropped to her knees and knelt over the smaller girl. "Hey, Sandy, wake up."
She didn't stir, and a humorless smirk engaged my lips as I wondered briefly what old Sodapop Curtis would think if he could see his sweet little girl right now.
"Sandy." Sylvia shook the girl's limp arm, which fell heavily to her side, her face frozen and eyes still closed.
Tim muttered a string of curses under his breath. "Christ's sake. Sylvia, if she's dead, I ain't taking care of it."
"She's not dead." Sylvia said thickly. "What did you give her, Tim?"
"I didn't give her nothin', doll. As I remember it, you cut her three lines sometime after those boys left." Tim parted the curtains with one hand and peered outside, squinting in the pale sunshine. "Well, Jesus, someone grab her. We gotta go."
An ashen look fell on Sylvia's face. I stood up, sliding Tim's lighter into the back pocket of my jeans and rolling my shoulders until I felt a satisfying crack. Groaning, I gathered Sandy up and slung her roughly over my shoulder, her body dead weight hanging down my back. Her blouse had ridden up, exposing pale, bruised skin on the undersides of her thin arms, pockmarked with a few tiny prick scars. Christ. I didn't think she was doing smack, too. Not that I cared, but I set myself a mental reminder to give that dumb chick a few words of advice about avoiding the H train when she decided to wake up. If she decided to wake up at all. Course, it'd be less trouble if she didn't.
Tim scanned the room for any indicatory traces of our freeloaded overnight stay. "Let's go." He said, skulking to the door and shoving it open. Pale sunshine flooded the room, bathing the whole shithole in a warm, yellow glow. "We've got to get the hell outta here before someone realizes we're not a bunch of tourists."