Dear Who Ever Reads This: All things are written for a purpose, and if you
were thinking: what the hell does all that stuff in Chapter Five have to do
with the story, well let me say that it is foundation for key elements in
the plot.how ever the plot may go.or whatever..
A lyric from Shooter popped into my head just now: "Life's a bitch and then you die." Hell, that sums up my story.
CHAPTER SIX
The nights when her husband had been out at some miscellaneous pub, Nora Conlon had sat on her son's bed with him. Benji would be snuggled against her soft, frumpy body, his eyes peacefully closed, sleep ready to conquer the last shard of energy in his soul for the night. Yet, before he finally drifted into slumber, Nora would open The Bible to where they had left off from the previous, erratic night ago and read him a few verses.
A particular story from The Book now blazed painfully in Benji's mind as his eyes followed a crack snaking the dark gray sidewalk.
The story about Jesus and the Last Supper. The last meal that He had had the day before He was to be crucified.
It was so damn funny how his life paralleled Jesus Christ's right now that he burst into a snort, rupturing the silence of the cool spring night.
Benji was going to die tomorrow. Correction, he was sentence to die tomorrow. Things had been all dandy and innocent in his life up until now. How one day could fuck up your entire life was beyond him. For him, that day was today: April 2nd, the day of his thirteenth birthday, the last day of his childhood.
Pictures of the factory where he was to start work tomorrow too grotesque to even try to encapsulate into words swarmed through his mind on that cool spring night as he walked with a silent, somber Luxy, her arm linked heavily through his, the echoing sounds of their shoes thudding on the pavement.
Benji had had his Last Supper already. Luxy had been a good friend and had somehow-it was beyond him-had salvaged enough money to take him to his favorite restaurant, a humble joint on the skirts of Manhattan called Little Italy. They had dined together there countless other times-laughing, carefree scavengers (sneaking around the backdoor, Luxy would distract Tony, the owner, as Benji stole food from behind his back, before they would both go running off, cackling, Tony's yells in their ears.) But now, it was real. Luxy had dressed up in her best (an old dress of Annie's) and Benji had thrown on some of his cloths. Still, they were kids and when they were seated, the waiter had given them the evil eye. Benji figured that Tony didn't want to cater to rag tag kids who looked like they had just been trampled by a herd of buffalo (Lux still had a nasty gash on her left cheek sewed shut with stitches that would bleed occasionally, the gash that she got from that one day they got separated, and he still had his bandana clad wrist that hurt like a bitch and a new black eye, this time his left one, courtesy of his pa in a fit of drunken anger.)
The meal of spaghetti and meatballs and bread and water had been one of sad silence. Benji had been lost in his own depressing thoughts about the next day and whether or not he should commit suicide and Luxy just hadn't been talking like she normally did.
Luxy. The name reverberated through Benji's mind, causing him to glance down at the girl. Her thin arm was linked tightly through his, her head bowed, sorrow-filled eyes staring at the ground. The slight zephyr tossed her long hair behind her, revealing her cheek.
Benji shuddered. He was thankful that he was on her right side and not left. He didn't think he could bare to look at the awful stitches that held together the gash in her left cheek. The awful gash that had gushed blood onto his bare chest that day.
That day.
He never knew what happened that day when Luxy had run out of the theatre, and he wished with all his soul that he knew. Whatever happened to Luxy in those few hours that they were separated changed her profoundly. Why she had come into Tibby's babbling and hysterical, he would never know. But instead of being light-hearted and flirtatious and in her normal spirits, she had become reserved and quiet. Almost never speaking unless spoken too, where she half the time didn't answer or spoke in mysterious murmurs, Luxy Listin almost never left his side. It was if she wanted his protection. As if without him, an unknown beast was going to jump out and maul her to pieces. On the nights when Anthony Conlon was not at home beating his wife and son, Luxy would stay with Benji in his room, in his bed. Most of the nights when he wasn't worrying about his ever dawning thirteenth year, he would stay up, hands behind his head and create theories of why Lux would cry herself to sleep.
Try as he might, he could not dream up a single damn thing.
"Benji, do ya ever think that you would marry me?"
Benji felt as though at that minute a pair of hands had twined themselves around his neck, cutting off all circulation. He stumbled on the sidewalk as all the thoughts of the factory were dashed from his mind. The cool, clear spring night suddenly became all too real as he turned his head to face Luxy.
Her head was still bowed to the pavement.
Perhaps he was just imagining things. His brain slowly started to become clouded with thoughts again.
"I said, would you ever marry me?"
This time, the jolt to reality was not as much of a dire shock. He turned to her, rearranging his expression of puzzlement. She was turned towards him this time, her blue eyes haunting against her pale skin (the stitches showing,) her fluttering black hair bringing the effect together.
"Well.I." he stammered like an idiot, quickly turning his head forward, her blue eyes still emblazoned into his mind.
What could he say? Christ, Luxy, you are one crazy bitch! I'm thirteen and you're twelve and I have to work in the fucking factory tomorrow do you really expect me to think about that shit now? I have always had the fantasy that I want to marry Julie because I have always been in love with her but then you look at me like you are now and I can't even look at you because I stammer like a fucking idiot and you look exactly like Julie except she doesn't have stitches. But I can't think about that I mean Gia the red-head and Maria the easy girl down the street just said to me that they have loved me forever and Maria wanted me to do her under The Sentinel.
So, Benji turned back to Luxy who was still staring at him with her electric eyes and just smiled and ducked his head and said, "Yeah."
Benji Conlon could have sworn on his mother's grave that after he uttered that singular word, he saw Lux's first smile since That Day; her grip on his arm link became tighter and her hand went to his, gently planting it on top of the bandana.
Somehow, just having the reassuring notion of having his girl by his side in the future made the unknown experience of the factory easier and he decided that he would not commit suicide that night, like he had been planning-by tying the laundry cord that he had crawled over to Luxy's room so many times on around his neck and jumping out the window.
* Chain-reactions. Benji knew what they were and plenty had happened to him (case in point: two summers ago Julie and Mr. and Mrs. Listin had been arguing over her courtship of David Something-or-Other. The arguing caused Luxy to become fed up and climb over the laundry cord to Benji's room, who allowed her to share his bed. In turn, his father came home from the pub, blasted. He found his son and an unknown girl innocently enough sharing a bed, which made him get out his cane and first knock Luxy over the head unconscious and then turn his attention to Benji so that he was blacked out for two days afterwards with a fantastic concussion.)
So, sure, he knew what chain-reactions were.
Yet lo, the chain-reaction that occurred on Benjamin Conlon's thirteenth birthday on April 2nd at 9:26 p.m. would forever be blazed into his mind for the rest of his years.
It started when they were only a few blocks into the Italian district. Luxy heard the faint shouts first and nudged Benji in the side, whose lovely daydreams were shattered as he jumped at the touch. Next came both exchanging glances, looking up to the skyline and seeing the smoke (o, the billowing smoke,) and exchanging glances again. Benji was the first to take off, leaving Luxy to hobble behind him, before stopping to quickly slide off her heels.
As he ran past the dark buildings and dim apartments, his shoes thudding on the pavement, the smoke became more visible, as did the first sign of the reflections of the yellow and orange in the sky. When he saw the reflections, he immediately stopped running, his heart pounding. Luxy joined him, eyes wide and hair wild, breathing heavily.
"What is it?" she puffed. "Fire?"
Benji ignored as her blue eyes stared at him; his eyes were on the vivid colors in the sky alone. He picked up his pace; Lux's cries to slow down being drowned from his ears as the shouts got more audible.
His mind raced of insane thoughts and he prayed that if it was a fire it was not his apartment and if it was (God forbid) his mother was alive and healthy and his father had either been burnt to death already or had died of smoke suffocation.
Benji rounded the sidewalk that drew him from Clinton Avenue to the street he resided on. As he did so, he halted. He could only hear the awful yells in thick Italian accents from the gawkers who littered the street and hung out windows looking at the spectacle, the spectacle of the deadly, hypnotizing flames that licked his apartment building, the clusters brightest in his apartment.
Luxy joined him on the curb, panting wheezing. "Oh, Christ." Then the emotion came to her voice. "Oh, Christ! OH FUCKING CHRIST!"
Benji felt himself being pushed roughly forward as she brushed past him, sobbing, her heels falling from her lax hand. Her figure got smaller and smaller as she neared the fire, all the way shrieking the same curse.
Benji felt like he was frozen. He could only stare as the billows of dark gray smoke as they mixed with the ungodly brightness of the flames.
Benny, I love you. I will always love you. You must know that. Your father, he used to be a wonderful man, but the alcohol got him. Oh, Benny, he used to be so kind and funny.
Benji suddenly felt himself flying forward, pushing past the people who stood and watched, just stood and watched as the fire ate away his home.
I remember one time, Benny, when you were little and your Daddy played horsey with you and he gave you a piggyback ride, do you remember, Benny?
Benji pondered that he heard people shouting to him as he pushed his way past them and up the sidewalk to his apartment.
We went on picnics together, Benny, do you remember darling? Remember the picnic to Central Park and you and your Daddy splashed in the lake and I sat on the bank and laughed?
Benji retaliated with a bellow as he placed his hand on the knob to the apartments. Feeling a pair of strong arms grab him about the waste and try to pull him back, he thrashed and placed his hand on the fantastically hot knob, finally opening it and slamming the door behind him.
Your Daddy didn't always beat us.he was nice. Do you remember Benny sweetie?
Benji placed his hands in front of his face, protecting him from the scorching heat of the flames. He stood at the base of the flame covered stairwell, the stairwell that lead to the apartments.
Remember, Benny darling, the time Daddy let you hold his pretty cane?
A thunderous crash from somewhere up above made Benji jump as he took the steps two, three at a time, dodging the flames, praying that the stairwell did not crash. Remember, Benny, when Daddy put on the puppet show with his socks? Mr. Blinky and Mr. Stinky were their names!
Coughing, sputtering, his eyes watery and scratchy, Benji miraculously made up the two flights of falling stairs to his apartment. Keeping low and with his hand over his mouth, he prayed to Jesus Christ that He would not let him die. Passing the Peppers' door, he finally espied his.
Falling to his knees in a coughing fit, he drew a cross across his chest.
Benny darling, remember when Daddy used to read you bed time stories, baby?
Benjamin Conlon's world was now a messy dream. He only went through the motions as he somehow found his way through the smoldering door into his flame-engulfed apartment, crawling on his belly to escape being intoxicated by the smoke.
His father's body he found first, sprawled in the bedroom, portions of the skin incinerated, his hands clamped around his neck, eyes open, mouth in a dreadful O, face twisted into an expression as that of one of immortal terror.
Benji felt no emotion inside whatsoever as he stared down at his dead father, only emptiness as he went to the burnt box and saved the cane from the flames, sliding it in one of his belt loops.
Yet it was when he saw his mother's cadaver in a heap on the kitchen, that a wave of emotion welled up inside of him so quick and so strong that he felt nausea.
"OH GOD OH NO!" he sobbed, falling over the corpse, not caring if the smoke or fire snatched his life away. He wanted to be here, with his mother.
"NO!" he hollered, weeping bitterly, the heat scorching him.
"I DON'T CARE! I WANT TO DIE! TAKE ME TOO! TAKE ME TOO GODDAMN YOU!"
And Benji fell against his mother, prepared to die.
"BENJI!"
The word rang in his head as clear as a crystal.
"BENJI!"
He somehow managed to raise his head, lightheaded and weak from the smoke inhalation.
"BENJI! JESUS CHRIST, PLEASE, BENJI!"
Nonetheless a miracle, he raised himself from his fallen mother and crawled his way through the torrid flames and suffocating smoke to his room. Delirious, he crawled to his window and outstretched his arm, praying for the laundry cord to still be there.
It was.
Grunting and wheezing, he pulled himself onto the window ledge and untied the cord. Holding onto one edge, he closed his eyes and jumped, the flames licking his skin.
* "Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust."
The fire had been in the Conlon's kitchen. Nora had been cooking dinner when Anthony had come home from the pub early, drunk. They had had an argument, where he had knocked his wife out, causing her to crash forcefully into the old stove, knocking it over and starting the fire.
Benji stood, the bitter wind of the early spring day whipping his hair, his eyes set, unblinking, on the matching set of unmarked graves.
"Anthony and Nora Conlon."
Beside him, he heard Luxy stifle a sob into her handkerchief.
"May they rest in peace."
The pastor closed his Bible and backed away from the head of the graves, signaling the gravediggers to come and start to cover the shrouded bodies with soil.
Luxy let out another sob, falling against Benji, who continued to stare at the graves, his right hand falling to the hilt of the cane.
Anastacia, her face pale and green eyes filled with remorse approached Benji, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, she was a good woman."
Benji nodded and straightened, feeling Lux sobbing beside him, he trying to hold back. He simply nodded.
Anastacia returned the nod, and exited the churchyard, leaving Luxy and he the only members of the service for Anthony and Nora Conlon to remain.
"Oh, Benji!" she sobbed, blowing her nose on the handkerchief.
Without turning in her direction, Benji slowly slung his arm around her, pulling her close, her tangles of hair falling against his bare arm.
Luxy stifled another sob. "Oh, Benji, I can't stand this. I'll be waiting at the gates," she said, breaking out of his hold.
Benji now stood alone, the breeze ruffling his hair. Slowly, he made his way over to his mother's grave, willing with his entire soul not to burst out. He could only shake his head, tears welling in the creases of his eyes as he thought, "Mom, I love you why did you have to go this is so unfair!"
He closed his eyes and dropped his head, opening them only to find that he was staring at his father's grave.
A surge of infuriation surged through Benji and his mind flashed with a brilliant hellfire red. He straightened and his grip on the cane became tighter.
"Look, you old fucker, look," he gritted. "I have your stupid fucking cane, not you. You weren't buried with it, you old bastard. Your death brought a lot of good things.I don't have to start work at the factory yet. I hope that you are in hell right now and will rot there for all eternity. Fuck you for making my life and Ma's life hell."
He spat on his father's grave and then turned, shoulders back and gripping the cane so tightly now that his palm had become red, to join Luxy at the gates.
A lyric from Shooter popped into my head just now: "Life's a bitch and then you die." Hell, that sums up my story.
CHAPTER SIX
The nights when her husband had been out at some miscellaneous pub, Nora Conlon had sat on her son's bed with him. Benji would be snuggled against her soft, frumpy body, his eyes peacefully closed, sleep ready to conquer the last shard of energy in his soul for the night. Yet, before he finally drifted into slumber, Nora would open The Bible to where they had left off from the previous, erratic night ago and read him a few verses.
A particular story from The Book now blazed painfully in Benji's mind as his eyes followed a crack snaking the dark gray sidewalk.
The story about Jesus and the Last Supper. The last meal that He had had the day before He was to be crucified.
It was so damn funny how his life paralleled Jesus Christ's right now that he burst into a snort, rupturing the silence of the cool spring night.
Benji was going to die tomorrow. Correction, he was sentence to die tomorrow. Things had been all dandy and innocent in his life up until now. How one day could fuck up your entire life was beyond him. For him, that day was today: April 2nd, the day of his thirteenth birthday, the last day of his childhood.
Pictures of the factory where he was to start work tomorrow too grotesque to even try to encapsulate into words swarmed through his mind on that cool spring night as he walked with a silent, somber Luxy, her arm linked heavily through his, the echoing sounds of their shoes thudding on the pavement.
Benji had had his Last Supper already. Luxy had been a good friend and had somehow-it was beyond him-had salvaged enough money to take him to his favorite restaurant, a humble joint on the skirts of Manhattan called Little Italy. They had dined together there countless other times-laughing, carefree scavengers (sneaking around the backdoor, Luxy would distract Tony, the owner, as Benji stole food from behind his back, before they would both go running off, cackling, Tony's yells in their ears.) But now, it was real. Luxy had dressed up in her best (an old dress of Annie's) and Benji had thrown on some of his cloths. Still, they were kids and when they were seated, the waiter had given them the evil eye. Benji figured that Tony didn't want to cater to rag tag kids who looked like they had just been trampled by a herd of buffalo (Lux still had a nasty gash on her left cheek sewed shut with stitches that would bleed occasionally, the gash that she got from that one day they got separated, and he still had his bandana clad wrist that hurt like a bitch and a new black eye, this time his left one, courtesy of his pa in a fit of drunken anger.)
The meal of spaghetti and meatballs and bread and water had been one of sad silence. Benji had been lost in his own depressing thoughts about the next day and whether or not he should commit suicide and Luxy just hadn't been talking like she normally did.
Luxy. The name reverberated through Benji's mind, causing him to glance down at the girl. Her thin arm was linked tightly through his, her head bowed, sorrow-filled eyes staring at the ground. The slight zephyr tossed her long hair behind her, revealing her cheek.
Benji shuddered. He was thankful that he was on her right side and not left. He didn't think he could bare to look at the awful stitches that held together the gash in her left cheek. The awful gash that had gushed blood onto his bare chest that day.
That day.
He never knew what happened that day when Luxy had run out of the theatre, and he wished with all his soul that he knew. Whatever happened to Luxy in those few hours that they were separated changed her profoundly. Why she had come into Tibby's babbling and hysterical, he would never know. But instead of being light-hearted and flirtatious and in her normal spirits, she had become reserved and quiet. Almost never speaking unless spoken too, where she half the time didn't answer or spoke in mysterious murmurs, Luxy Listin almost never left his side. It was if she wanted his protection. As if without him, an unknown beast was going to jump out and maul her to pieces. On the nights when Anthony Conlon was not at home beating his wife and son, Luxy would stay with Benji in his room, in his bed. Most of the nights when he wasn't worrying about his ever dawning thirteenth year, he would stay up, hands behind his head and create theories of why Lux would cry herself to sleep.
Try as he might, he could not dream up a single damn thing.
"Benji, do ya ever think that you would marry me?"
Benji felt as though at that minute a pair of hands had twined themselves around his neck, cutting off all circulation. He stumbled on the sidewalk as all the thoughts of the factory were dashed from his mind. The cool, clear spring night suddenly became all too real as he turned his head to face Luxy.
Her head was still bowed to the pavement.
Perhaps he was just imagining things. His brain slowly started to become clouded with thoughts again.
"I said, would you ever marry me?"
This time, the jolt to reality was not as much of a dire shock. He turned to her, rearranging his expression of puzzlement. She was turned towards him this time, her blue eyes haunting against her pale skin (the stitches showing,) her fluttering black hair bringing the effect together.
"Well.I." he stammered like an idiot, quickly turning his head forward, her blue eyes still emblazoned into his mind.
What could he say? Christ, Luxy, you are one crazy bitch! I'm thirteen and you're twelve and I have to work in the fucking factory tomorrow do you really expect me to think about that shit now? I have always had the fantasy that I want to marry Julie because I have always been in love with her but then you look at me like you are now and I can't even look at you because I stammer like a fucking idiot and you look exactly like Julie except she doesn't have stitches. But I can't think about that I mean Gia the red-head and Maria the easy girl down the street just said to me that they have loved me forever and Maria wanted me to do her under The Sentinel.
So, Benji turned back to Luxy who was still staring at him with her electric eyes and just smiled and ducked his head and said, "Yeah."
Benji Conlon could have sworn on his mother's grave that after he uttered that singular word, he saw Lux's first smile since That Day; her grip on his arm link became tighter and her hand went to his, gently planting it on top of the bandana.
Somehow, just having the reassuring notion of having his girl by his side in the future made the unknown experience of the factory easier and he decided that he would not commit suicide that night, like he had been planning-by tying the laundry cord that he had crawled over to Luxy's room so many times on around his neck and jumping out the window.
* Chain-reactions. Benji knew what they were and plenty had happened to him (case in point: two summers ago Julie and Mr. and Mrs. Listin had been arguing over her courtship of David Something-or-Other. The arguing caused Luxy to become fed up and climb over the laundry cord to Benji's room, who allowed her to share his bed. In turn, his father came home from the pub, blasted. He found his son and an unknown girl innocently enough sharing a bed, which made him get out his cane and first knock Luxy over the head unconscious and then turn his attention to Benji so that he was blacked out for two days afterwards with a fantastic concussion.)
So, sure, he knew what chain-reactions were.
Yet lo, the chain-reaction that occurred on Benjamin Conlon's thirteenth birthday on April 2nd at 9:26 p.m. would forever be blazed into his mind for the rest of his years.
It started when they were only a few blocks into the Italian district. Luxy heard the faint shouts first and nudged Benji in the side, whose lovely daydreams were shattered as he jumped at the touch. Next came both exchanging glances, looking up to the skyline and seeing the smoke (o, the billowing smoke,) and exchanging glances again. Benji was the first to take off, leaving Luxy to hobble behind him, before stopping to quickly slide off her heels.
As he ran past the dark buildings and dim apartments, his shoes thudding on the pavement, the smoke became more visible, as did the first sign of the reflections of the yellow and orange in the sky. When he saw the reflections, he immediately stopped running, his heart pounding. Luxy joined him, eyes wide and hair wild, breathing heavily.
"What is it?" she puffed. "Fire?"
Benji ignored as her blue eyes stared at him; his eyes were on the vivid colors in the sky alone. He picked up his pace; Lux's cries to slow down being drowned from his ears as the shouts got more audible.
His mind raced of insane thoughts and he prayed that if it was a fire it was not his apartment and if it was (God forbid) his mother was alive and healthy and his father had either been burnt to death already or had died of smoke suffocation.
Benji rounded the sidewalk that drew him from Clinton Avenue to the street he resided on. As he did so, he halted. He could only hear the awful yells in thick Italian accents from the gawkers who littered the street and hung out windows looking at the spectacle, the spectacle of the deadly, hypnotizing flames that licked his apartment building, the clusters brightest in his apartment.
Luxy joined him on the curb, panting wheezing. "Oh, Christ." Then the emotion came to her voice. "Oh, Christ! OH FUCKING CHRIST!"
Benji felt himself being pushed roughly forward as she brushed past him, sobbing, her heels falling from her lax hand. Her figure got smaller and smaller as she neared the fire, all the way shrieking the same curse.
Benji felt like he was frozen. He could only stare as the billows of dark gray smoke as they mixed with the ungodly brightness of the flames.
Benny, I love you. I will always love you. You must know that. Your father, he used to be a wonderful man, but the alcohol got him. Oh, Benny, he used to be so kind and funny.
Benji suddenly felt himself flying forward, pushing past the people who stood and watched, just stood and watched as the fire ate away his home.
I remember one time, Benny, when you were little and your Daddy played horsey with you and he gave you a piggyback ride, do you remember, Benny?
Benji pondered that he heard people shouting to him as he pushed his way past them and up the sidewalk to his apartment.
We went on picnics together, Benny, do you remember darling? Remember the picnic to Central Park and you and your Daddy splashed in the lake and I sat on the bank and laughed?
Benji retaliated with a bellow as he placed his hand on the knob to the apartments. Feeling a pair of strong arms grab him about the waste and try to pull him back, he thrashed and placed his hand on the fantastically hot knob, finally opening it and slamming the door behind him.
Your Daddy didn't always beat us.he was nice. Do you remember Benny sweetie?
Benji placed his hands in front of his face, protecting him from the scorching heat of the flames. He stood at the base of the flame covered stairwell, the stairwell that lead to the apartments.
Remember, Benny darling, the time Daddy let you hold his pretty cane?
A thunderous crash from somewhere up above made Benji jump as he took the steps two, three at a time, dodging the flames, praying that the stairwell did not crash. Remember, Benny, when Daddy put on the puppet show with his socks? Mr. Blinky and Mr. Stinky were their names!
Coughing, sputtering, his eyes watery and scratchy, Benji miraculously made up the two flights of falling stairs to his apartment. Keeping low and with his hand over his mouth, he prayed to Jesus Christ that He would not let him die. Passing the Peppers' door, he finally espied his.
Falling to his knees in a coughing fit, he drew a cross across his chest.
Benny darling, remember when Daddy used to read you bed time stories, baby?
Benjamin Conlon's world was now a messy dream. He only went through the motions as he somehow found his way through the smoldering door into his flame-engulfed apartment, crawling on his belly to escape being intoxicated by the smoke.
His father's body he found first, sprawled in the bedroom, portions of the skin incinerated, his hands clamped around his neck, eyes open, mouth in a dreadful O, face twisted into an expression as that of one of immortal terror.
Benji felt no emotion inside whatsoever as he stared down at his dead father, only emptiness as he went to the burnt box and saved the cane from the flames, sliding it in one of his belt loops.
Yet it was when he saw his mother's cadaver in a heap on the kitchen, that a wave of emotion welled up inside of him so quick and so strong that he felt nausea.
"OH GOD OH NO!" he sobbed, falling over the corpse, not caring if the smoke or fire snatched his life away. He wanted to be here, with his mother.
"NO!" he hollered, weeping bitterly, the heat scorching him.
"I DON'T CARE! I WANT TO DIE! TAKE ME TOO! TAKE ME TOO GODDAMN YOU!"
And Benji fell against his mother, prepared to die.
"BENJI!"
The word rang in his head as clear as a crystal.
"BENJI!"
He somehow managed to raise his head, lightheaded and weak from the smoke inhalation.
"BENJI! JESUS CHRIST, PLEASE, BENJI!"
Nonetheless a miracle, he raised himself from his fallen mother and crawled his way through the torrid flames and suffocating smoke to his room. Delirious, he crawled to his window and outstretched his arm, praying for the laundry cord to still be there.
It was.
Grunting and wheezing, he pulled himself onto the window ledge and untied the cord. Holding onto one edge, he closed his eyes and jumped, the flames licking his skin.
* "Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust."
The fire had been in the Conlon's kitchen. Nora had been cooking dinner when Anthony had come home from the pub early, drunk. They had had an argument, where he had knocked his wife out, causing her to crash forcefully into the old stove, knocking it over and starting the fire.
Benji stood, the bitter wind of the early spring day whipping his hair, his eyes set, unblinking, on the matching set of unmarked graves.
"Anthony and Nora Conlon."
Beside him, he heard Luxy stifle a sob into her handkerchief.
"May they rest in peace."
The pastor closed his Bible and backed away from the head of the graves, signaling the gravediggers to come and start to cover the shrouded bodies with soil.
Luxy let out another sob, falling against Benji, who continued to stare at the graves, his right hand falling to the hilt of the cane.
Anastacia, her face pale and green eyes filled with remorse approached Benji, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, she was a good woman."
Benji nodded and straightened, feeling Lux sobbing beside him, he trying to hold back. He simply nodded.
Anastacia returned the nod, and exited the churchyard, leaving Luxy and he the only members of the service for Anthony and Nora Conlon to remain.
"Oh, Benji!" she sobbed, blowing her nose on the handkerchief.
Without turning in her direction, Benji slowly slung his arm around her, pulling her close, her tangles of hair falling against his bare arm.
Luxy stifled another sob. "Oh, Benji, I can't stand this. I'll be waiting at the gates," she said, breaking out of his hold.
Benji now stood alone, the breeze ruffling his hair. Slowly, he made his way over to his mother's grave, willing with his entire soul not to burst out. He could only shake his head, tears welling in the creases of his eyes as he thought, "Mom, I love you why did you have to go this is so unfair!"
He closed his eyes and dropped his head, opening them only to find that he was staring at his father's grave.
A surge of infuriation surged through Benji and his mind flashed with a brilliant hellfire red. He straightened and his grip on the cane became tighter.
"Look, you old fucker, look," he gritted. "I have your stupid fucking cane, not you. You weren't buried with it, you old bastard. Your death brought a lot of good things.I don't have to start work at the factory yet. I hope that you are in hell right now and will rot there for all eternity. Fuck you for making my life and Ma's life hell."
He spat on his father's grave and then turned, shoulders back and gripping the cane so tightly now that his palm had become red, to join Luxy at the gates.