The Feeny house wasn't very old, only a few decades. It had survived years of snow and stormy weather, the bickering of adult and children alike, and the usual passage of time. Parts of the house were worn down, but the windows were new. Only last summer had Nina replaced them, because the old ones let the condensation into the house and ruined the trunk her great-grandmother had once given her. It was a good thing the windows were new; they were certainly going to have to face the same trials as the old ones.
The second story had three windows facing the street; the far-left one was smudged and slightly scratched. The window belonged to Sam Feeny, Nina's son. Fortunately, Nina never noticed the imperfections of her son's window, or surely she would have known about his midnight liaisons with the girl next door.
Delia Brown was Sam Feeny's girl next door, but she was far from typical. The death of her mother, at such a young, needing age, was difficult to handle. Delia did what she could to cope. Her father and brother tried valiantly to give her the upbringing their missing matriarch would have, but they failed. Not being women themselves, and certainly not understanding the opposite sex, they weren't able to give Delia what she would need to come to the terms of being a woman. As a precocious preteen, Delia had been tomboyish, trying desperately to fit into the picture of what she thought she should be; a mirror of her female classmates. When she failed to find her place amongst her peers, she became a different person. Instead of the pleasant young girl she'd been in New York, she grew into a introverted, self-proclaimed "geek" before she was old enough to shave her legs.
Sam was fascinated by Delia. By the time he "discovered" girls, he decided he must love her, despite their age differences. Once he got up enough courage to tell her about his feelings; unfortunately for Sam, by that time Delia had become disillusioned with life in general. She did not laugh at him; she never did. Knowing the pain of rejection first hand, she only smiled bitter-sweetly.
"You don't love me, Sam. You just like me a little bit." Reaching over, she hugged him – something she rarely did, even with family. After pulling away, her face became stern and she raised her finger at him. "You can't love me, Sam. You've got to find a cute little girl, get a beautiful wedding and have cute little kids. Got me?"
Sam, blushing slightly, had nodded. After that, he never again told Delia what he felt about her. His love for her grew from one of infatuation and lust, to the deep love of a brother, perhaps even deeper than her brother's love for her actually ran. After all, it was not Ephram Brown who knew Delia best; no, it was Sam Feeny, the only friend Delia decided she needed.
By the time she was fourteen, Delia was routinely sneaking out of her room after her father went to bed, roaming the town restlessly until the wee hours of the morning. At first, she did not mean to make trouble. She never bothered anyone or their property; she merely walked around the streets, slowly, as if by staring at everything she could make it better, make it like she wanted. Gradually, this bored her, and she began playing pranks on the townsfolk of Everwood. Harmless, mischievous pranks that really didn't bother anyone. Delia would tell Sam about it and how she felt when doing it, but she never talked about why she did the things she did. Eventually Sam decided he needed to protect Delia from herself, so he began sneaking out with her.
So their late-night adventures would not be discovered, they decided not to use the telephone to communicate. Since Delia was the leader, the instigator, whenever she felt like going out, she would crawl out of her own window, down the drain pipe and into her front yard. Carefully and silently, she would make her way into the Feeny's front yard. She pick up a few small stones from the grass and toss them at Sam's window with excellent aim. The scratches on the window were the result of the stones. However, Sam would rarely hear the small tap of the stones, so Delia would be forced to climb up to Sam's window and knock on it herself. Sam would wake up, get dressed, and go out roaming with her. They would return hours later, with enough time to get back into bed and sleep for an hour, before having to rise to start their school day. Often Nina wondered at her son's unusual sluggishness, but she never asked him about it. Dr. Andrew Brown never even noticed his daughter's tired eyes, puffy from lack of sleep.
Sam knew Delia had her problems, but she was very secretive. Rarely did she open up completely, and when she did, the moments were concise and direct. Sam knew Delia did not tell him everything. She acted as if she were guilty of some great sin, but she never confided in him as to what it was she thought she was responsible for. The demons in Delia seemed to prominent, and yet so hidden, and Sam longed for the day he could help her. It never occurred to him that he might never be able to help the girl he'd grown to love as a sister.
Sam Feeny was sleeping. It was the first night of winter, but the cold had set in a few weeks previously, so his window was shut tightly. That is, until he heard the knock.
The first round of knocking did not rouse him from his sleep; it merely made him turn over and grunt. The second round caught his attention, and he stood straight up in his bed, his head automatically turning towards the window. It was Delia.
She was wearing the winter coat she'd had for the last five years, since she was fourteen. Her father offered to buy her another one, but she was very attached to the tattered, pastel purple jacket and insisted upon keeping it. She paired it with black leather gloves and a lopsided blue hat that kept slipping into her eyes.
Delia motioned with her hands, her face looking unusually grim. Puzzled, Sam got dressed faster than usual, and within five minutes the two were walking the streets of Everwood. The night was quiet and unassuming. Delia walked a little faster than normal, her stride longer and confident. She was on a mission; what mission, Sam had no idea.
They kept walking. Delia did not stop to look at street signs, or to watch the trees sway in the slight wind. The whispery breezes chilled Sam to the bone, even though he was dressed warmly, but Delia strode on as if she could not feel the cold. Sam was unsure of their destination; the streets were unfamiliar. He thought about asking Delia, but he knew if she had wanted him to know, she would have told him. So he silently soldiered on, waiting for Delia to stop. The houses suddenly became scarce, and they were walking through the woods. Nervously, Sam looked around him. The darkness seemed to creep up to him and the shadows appeared the rustle at their approach. He opened his mouth to speak, but Delia stopped short.
In front of them was a small hut made from logs, only six feet by six. It was crude, but apparently very old. It had a door and a roof, both of which looked ancient, but not quite as old as the structure itself. Sam had never been here before, but Delia obviously had. She walked confidently up to the rickety old shed, opening the door and disappearing inside. Apprehensively Sam followed her, making sure that he did not trip over the scattered beer bottles on the floor. Slightly horrified, Sam studied the inside of the building. There were glass bottles and evidence of sex and drugs; there were needles and condom packages on the floor, making Sam wonder what they were doing here.
He looked up to find Delia studying him. When his eyes met hers, she flashed him one of her most beautiful, but rare, smiles. She giggled girlishly when she saw the confusion on his face. "Oh, Sam, don't look at me like that. I didn't bring you here to seduce you." She sobered up instantly. "You know you don't love me."
Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Delia held up a hand to silence him. "No, Sam, it's true. No, that's not the reason we're here."
"Ah," Sam cleared his throat. "And why exactly are we here?"
Delia grinned mischievously. She leaned into Sam so close, he fought the urge to back away. Normally, Delia hated being so bodily close to anyone, so Sam was surprised by her movement. "This place is a testament to my life." Sam's eyes widened. Delia continued. "And tonight, it's going to die."
"Die? What?" Sam's mind was going faster than his mouth. He wanted to ask a whole hoard of questions, but none made their way out. While he stood gaping, Delia picked her way through the garbage towards an old couch aligned on the far wall. She picked up something heavy, something metal. Sam inhaled sharply when he saw it was gasoline container. Unconsciously, he stepped towards the doorframe, gripping it with his left hand for support. Delia lifted the heavy container and began emptying its contents in the shack.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked hesitantly, a strange feeling beginning to pulse through his body. Delia shrugged and continued to empty the ten gallon container of gasoline. She poured it over the dilapidated old couch and the four walls of the pitiful little shack, with great care to cover the greatest area she could. When it was empty, Delia sighed and kicked the metal container into a corner. Walking past Sam, who was still standing in the doorway, Delia left the shack. She was gone less than a minute and when she returned she carried a small bottle of liter fluid.
"Get out," she told Sam, her voice purposely curt. He gaped wordlessly at her, unable to make his mouth form the words running around in his head. Delia turned to look him in the eye, her stare cold and impersonal. Sam was taken aback by the fury he saw there, but also the pain and hurt. "I said get out, dammit!"
Delia did not wait for Sam to comply. She pushed him roughly out of the door. Sam stumbled out of the opening, catching himself with his hands before fully falling onto the frozen Colorado soil. Delia followed him slowly, squeezing the contents of the bottle on the ground. Cautiously, she made the trail of fluid follow a straight line out of the shack.
"What are you going to do? What are you going to do, Delia?" Sam finally asked, finding his voice and sounding as shocked as he felt. He knew Delia was not happy but he had no idea as to the depth of her pain. Delia smiled sadly at him, but she did not reply. Instead, she reached into her heavy winter coat and brought out a half-empty pack of Camels and a cheap plastic liter.
"What a smoke?" Delia offered, bringing a slender cigarette to her lips and lighting it. Shocked, Sam shook his head. He'd been completely unaware she smoked.
"People say the past is the past and the past is dead." Delia took a drag and cast a sidelong glance at Sam. He thought about stepping closer, but wisely decided against it. When Delia was in such a mood, he knew nothing would abate her anger, her bitterness. "That's just bull-shit, you know? Something they feed you to make you believe the lie that life is worth living."
Sam turned his head to study Delia's profile. He had never heard her talk this way before, and it disturbed him. He said nothing, however, sensing Delia's rage and knowing she just needed someone she trusted nearby. Delia took a drag, the smoke billowing out of her nose as she took a final look at the shack in front of her. There was no sadness in her eyes at all.
"What the hell," she murmured, shrugging apathetically. "You only live once."
With that, Delia flicked her unfinished cigarette into the dirt. It landed in the lighter fluid and almost immediately burst into flames. The flames spread quickly along the path of the lighter fluid, following it into the tiny structure before them. In shock, Sam watched the orange glow of the tiny flame grow into something larger—something much larger. He tried to run, knowing what was going to happen, but he found his legs paralyzed. He was unable to move until Delia shoved him forcefully with both of her gloved hands.
"Are you fucking stupid?" she demanded, pushing him again. She took his hand and began to run "Move!"
Sam began to follow her, gripping tightly to her hand. Somehow, the simple act of holding hands made him feel better about what he'd just seen, but he had no time to think about that. He tripped over a log that Delia had deftly leaped over, causing Delia to fall with him. As they lay twisted on the ground, the shack exploded. Unbeknownst to Sam, Delia had smuggled in two more ten gallon containers of gasoline and left them in the shack to burn. She turned to watch the building's destruction. What was left burned fiercely and so bright that Delia was forced to shield her eyes.
Sam knew the woods were watched in case of fire, and suddenly he realized that they had to get out of here before someone came. They could not be caught, or else there would be hell to pay. No matter how hard Sam tugged at her sleeve, begged or pleaded with her, Delia would not budge. Completely enthralled, she watched it burn with an almost pleased expression on her face. Suddenly she began to laugh, a great, deep laugh, that became shrill and drawn out. After a moment Sam realized Delia was no longer laughing; instead she was crying, the tears running down her face faster than he'd ever seen in any movie.
Sam knew they had to get out of there; he could hear sirens in the distance. He knocked the cheap pink lighter she held so tightly and grabbed her hand. He began to run away, in the direction he hoped would take them home. After they were out of the ring of light the fire emitted, Delia seemed to snap out of whatever trance she was in. Her face was dry now, although streaked, and her face was set in grim determination. She walked with purpose, as a woman who had accomplished one of her greatest goals. Sam kept quiet.
Together they crept along the streets of Everwood back to their homes, parting ways at the sidewalk. Usually Delia nodded, but tonight she hugged Sam tightly. Surprised, he hugged her back, but let go sooner than he would have liked to. He tried to look Delia in the eye, but she avoided his inquisitive gaze. Muttering her goodbyes, she ran up the walk to her house, climbed the drain pipe and into her window. She shut it without looking to the street. Sam shook his head, still confused. He reentered his house the way he'd left it, but his mind was still buzzing and unable to concentrate on petty details such as those. Instead, he was caught up in the events of the night.
Tonight Sam had seen the dark side of Delia, and it made him afraid. Not for him, because Delia loved him as much as she loved anyone. No, he decided, as he crawled back into his cozily warm room, sliding into his covers as daylight broke. He was afraid for Delia, for what she might do to herself.
Sam's head hit the pillows and his worries left him. Before sleep claimed him, he was comforted slightly, knowing he'd always be there for Delia, always watching to make sure she was safe. After all, he'd hit strangely disturbing nerves with Delia before and their relationship had survived it. Delia always came back.
She always knocked on the window.