Chapter 34
She knew she was unlovable.
It was not that she sat around throwing private pity parties—but when she did, butane and cookie dough were usually involved. She also did not linger on the issue 24/7, in fact, whole days would pass by without her giving the matter another thought. Cassandra would not dare entertain it for long, lest her brain would break along with her heart.
She accepted it. It was just an unpleasant fact. A side effect of her life. Realism, that is all.
She suspected it was because of that thing, whatever that "thing" was.
There was something bad in her, something she could feel. Something dark. It liked to announce its presence to her every now and then and she liked to pretend she could ignore it.
I scream inside my head.
On occasion, she would catch its reflections staring at her from the faces of some of people she had grown up around since she was eight years old—the way one will walk past a familiar storefront window and have a vague ghost of an image mirrored back.
At first this confused her. The look on their faces would pass quickly and she was back to thinking she had imagined the caution and—what exactly was that in their features?
Pity? Perhaps. It would make sense. It was a small town. Most people knew her history. They had heard how her parents had died and knew before her uncle's passing that he was slowly dying. She found herself on some days feeling sorry for those people and wanted to comfort them, instead of the other way around.
Was it resolve? Sometimes she thought some of these folks had determined themselves to be her guardians—bulwarks, animated statues watching. Content with only a nod of acknowledgement, eyes following her—reminiscent of the birds that use to live in the crevices of her farmhouse, their nests too now at home among the ashes.
Perhaps then, fear? What rumors had been spread or spooky campfire tales taken as fact? Thankfully, there was only a handful that she believed might truly be afraid of her. But why?
Then she would chalk it all up to paranoia and call it day. Most of the time.
She could have just ignored completely it if her uncle had not also looked at her with the same trepidation from time to time.
He had unofficially adopted her after the tragic death of her parents—his brother and sister-in-law—in what was deemed an accidental fire during one of her father's performances with Haly's Circus. That is what she had been told.
He was a fire-eater and shot himself out of canons. Mom designed his costumes. Together they were dynamite, and they adored each other.
That was why it was so upsetting to Cassandra that Oswald was presently with his mother. She feared that she would be left again, or someone else she loved would be taken from her. However she chose to look at it, the thought consumed her. If he discarded her, having come from the "outside" to her home without any preconceived notions about her, then her theory would be true—there was something wrong with her, and she was really was not lovable after all.
Okay. Time for this pity party to end. Especially since I really never wring my hands about what other people think about me.
At least not to this extent.
Oswald Cobblepot, you have cast a spell on me.
Questioning at the precinct that afternoon had not taken as long as Cassandra thought it would and they had returned to the club before nightfall. Maroni and Butch were still in custody along with Maroni's lieutenants, and that suited Oswald and his crew just fine.
Cassandra expected Oswald would stay the night with Mrs. Cobblepot, trying in some way to appease her and convince her of Cassandra's worth. She had been rude to Cassandra whenever Oswald was not within earshot, and sometimes when he was. When he heard her, he chastised her, and by the time the interviews were over, he was exasperated. He told Cassandra it was like trying to reign in a disobedient child.
What if she is able to talk him out of being with me?
That thought filled her with more fear than facing Maroni or Jeb. She started crumpling up any paper she could find, including an old phone book—tearing out the pages by the handful and tossing them into the bathtub.
See? I'm being proactive, she thought, rather proud of herself. By placing my combustibles in the tub, I not only prevent the spread of the fire, I will be able to put it out immediately once the high passes.
She checked through her purse for something to light the pile with and was disappointed to discover that she was not carrying any matches, not even a lighter. Time to search all the drawers.
Each one turned up as empty as the last.
Really? Are there no matches in this place? Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned, bad-for-your-lungs smoking? She straightened up to look around the room and made note that there were no ashtrays in it.
This did not deter her. She was on a mission. Any kind of match would do. She had a Forrest Gump list of all the matches she enjoyed—book matches, fireplace matches, kitchen matches, storm matches . . .
Finally! Hidden under a liner in the last drawer she found some much-needed pyro-phernalia. Come to me my phosphorous friend.
She held the book of matches against her nostrils—there was a skeleton of a fish on the cover—and was giddy with the knowledge that in a few seconds she would be inhaling the scent of sulfur. She really liked that.
Sitting on the toilet, lid down, of course, Cassandra struck the match—that initial scrape and sizzle was music to her ears, and she wanted the whole album. It gave her the shivers.
Throwing the lit stick on the pile and hearing the poof as the paper lit, she got a rush. It tingled throughout her veins. Why didn't she do this more often?
The smoke began its steady rise and curl, like a deadly hypnotized snake. Resting her chin on her fists as she leaned towards the tub, the heat from the small blaze warming her face.
I probably should have moved the shower curtain back more.
She considered this now that it was on fire.
She jumped up and turned on the shower, but made the unfortunate discovery that the showerhead had limited movement, preventing her from getting a proper aim. She tried cupfuls of water from the sink, but that did not make a dent, so she threw the cup into the fire to punish it.
Oh, good. That's much better, she thought, as the smell of burning plastic assaulted her nostrils.
The flames were traveling up the formerly-known-as "shower curtain", now referred to as the well-lookie-here-I-have-set-the-bathroom-on-fire curtain. Cassandra took a step back to admire the flaming veil.
Wow! That is pretty! But too close to the ceiling.
She started hyperventilating. If only she could determine if it was from panic of the flames getting out of control or joy from the flames getting out of control.
One thing was for certain—glee or no glee. She had to stop its spread before she burned down Oswald's.
Where is the fire extinguisher! It would take too long to get the one in the hall and she could not remember if it was right outside the door or not. Thinking fast, she grabbed a hand towel, wet it, and grabbed what remained of the curtain, giving it a yank.
Everything plummeted into the tub, including a newly destroyed rod made malleable by the heat, but not without first sharing a few wandering embers with the bathmat . . . which was now on fire.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!
Using the wet towel, she beat the stuffing out of that sweet blaze until there was nothing left but melted goo. That lovely sulfur and smoke-in-the-fall scent was replaced by something putrid and well, just really unattractive to her nose.
She scooped up the melted goo with the wet towel and threw it into the tub, searching the floor for more embers. The hairs on her neck stood up as she considered what could have happened if the floor had linoleum instead of tile.
Taking no more chances, she got up and ran out the door in search of the extinguisher. She did not have to go far. It was right there. In front of her. It looked new. Like it had just been placed there recently.
Wasting no time, she grabbed it, sprinted back into the bathroom, slung out the key and opened fire—oh, how she appreciated her own pun—on the blackened area to make sure no extra sparks were waiting for their chance to grab the spotlight.
Great, so now I have switched from a volcanic eruption to the ice caps of the artic. It looked like it had snowed in her bathroom. Surveying the damage, Cassandra hung her arms at her sides and released the extinguisher allowing it to hit the floor with a thud and then fall over.
This is going to require a lot of scrubbing. But, at least I managed to squelch the fire. Yay, me, she thought dully.
She relaxed a little and leaned back against the counter, watching the water gush out of the sink faucet. After one big sigh of relief mixed with dread, she reached over and twisted the knob to off before doing the same to the handle in the tub.
Oswald is going to kill me.