There’s a man outside the window. It’s dark and he’s dark, so I can barely catch him, and all I can really see are the bright glints from the buttons on his coat and soft light from his skin.
I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s standing there, probably thinking he’s hidden behind the tree in front of him, and he’s just staring. Right at my house, he’s staring.
I went to make tea. It wasn’t a long process but it was long enough, and I was hoping that when I came back, he would be gone. I’m already warm from making the tea, and I haven’t even taken a sip yet.
He’s still standing there. My hands are warm from the tea and my back is cold from the bit of sweat that’s dripping down the center. It’s getting caught on the inside of my shirt and being stopped, leaving an unfinished stream and probably a small stain.
I don’t want to turn but I know for a fact my phone’s on the kitchen table, so I do it anyways, facing my now-sweaty back to the guy. He’s been there for fifteen minutes now, so hey, why not call the police, I’m sure there’s some sort of loitering law I can invoke because I’m beginning to get a bit scared.
“Nine one one,” they say, “What’s the emergency?”
There’s a man outside my apartment building, and he’s been standing there for sixteen minutes now and I’ll admit, now I’m getting scared, because I walk around with the phone like you tend to do, and he’s not there. Would you mind sending some of your most skilled SWAT team members to protect me?
“Can we have your address, sir?”
3560 come fucking save me lane, unit 303.
“Okay, sir, an officer will be there as soon as possible to help.”
And then I hang up because the voice isn’t helping me relax, and I honestly have no idea where I just put my tea in all of this and at the moment, I’m not finding a lot of reason to care.
But does it really matter where I put my tea now, because suddenly the room is hot and it’s just getting hard to breathe. I rush for the door but the handle feels like I touched the sun itself, contained inside a little brass ball, and now what am I going to do, because a strip of flame races across my carpet like there’s an ant pulling Helios’ flaming chariots across my apartment floor.
So now I call back emergency services and tell them, you know what, that little fucker just decided he wanted to throw a couple matches and some gasoline on my home, so please, would you kindly send some assistance? It would be much appreciated.
And then I realize that I’m getting a bit light-headed and it’s really getting hard to breathe, so with the phone in my shaking hands, I call my dad. I’m really not proud of my hands shaking, because I’m an artist, and I pride myself on the fact my hands don’t shake. If you need a needle threaded, come to me, because I’ll get the damn thing in there so fast you won’t believe it.
My dad picks up. Dad, I’m stuck in my shitty apartment surrounded by stuff that I thought was important but is now going to end up as charcoal for some other art student, most likely, and I’m probably going to die. It really sucks, so forgive me if I’m crying and can barely get the words out, because my throat is burning from the breathes I’m managing to take.
Now he’s crying as well, so I just turned this family reunion into an awful tear-fest. Sorry, dad, for whatever the hell I did that ever pissed you off, especially that time I basically broke your new binoculars into a pile of plastic and broken dreams. Sorry for not being a lawyer like you wanted me to, and now I kind of regret fighting about that, because honestly, it didn’t mean much. I didn’t talk to you for a week afterwards, which isn’t much to most, but right now, it feels like a hundred years that I would gladly take.
And now I’m thinking about that time we played catch, that one specific time that was probably inconsequential, and that time you met my girlfriend who I said I was going to marry, because she was my first and I was excited. You just nodded and smiled, kept the thoughts of your son being a dumbass to yourself, and then let me drive the Impala instead of sitting in my room and crying when it turned sour.
And maybe I should call Roxy, too, because she’s probably going to be pissed off that I died a couple weeks before our anniversary, especially since her gift is in the closet.
As my dad kept talking and I said mostly meaningless words that were just trying to say I love him, I started feeling guilty about all the things I’d done. My dad’s binoculars, broken to pieces, and my dad’s car, which I had decided to drive when I was stupid and uneducated and drunk, and all those girl’s whose hearts I’d probably broken because I decided their friend was a bit cuter, so good-bye, I’ll send you a postcard. And the night of that company party a couple years back, when I’d never wanted anyone more, but hey, she’s married, so you should probably stop, but unfortunately, after seven shots of whiskey nothing seems forbidden to you, so off to the janitor’s closet we went, where we ended up spilling Windex on our clothes and not caring one bit.
I was crying, now, and I just hoped that if I did that enough, it would quench the fire somehow, and then I’d gleefully dance with the phone in my hands and run straight over to my dad’s place, just me and my own two feet, despite him living a couple states away. Maybe I would get there by tomorrow morning, if I made good enough time. I’d probably need new sneakers, though.
My dad started going on about all my stuff that was going to be lost and how I was going to have to buy some new things and I could come live with him, and I didn’t want to tell him how difficult that would be when I’m dead, so I just nodded and cried and realized I didn’t give a fuck about the stuff, because right now I wanted to live so badly it hurt.
I wanted to see my sister again and watch her and her boyfriend be stupid and cute together and eventually walk her down the aisle to him, if she would be cool with that. I wanted to paint again and maybe actually sell more than one piece, so I can be recognized for something other than that one thing, and even just feeling the brush in my hand would be the best thing ever. I really wanted to see Roxy again, without makeup or clothing or any other sort of cover that would hide her even that much from me, and I wanted to live so badly that it hurt.
And then suddenly it was bright and then very dark, and I thought I saw a couple people moving about, and then it was bright again as I woke up to a penlight shining into my eyes, as bright as the fire but not as alive.
“He’s awake!”
I wanted to hug the paramedic more than I wanted to hug anything in my life, and I would have if not for the burning pain in my leg that I could feel throbbing along with my heart. My left pant leg was ripped open and singed and crispy, and my leg was bandaged and cool and white.
I was asked a bunch of questions and answered most of them, and that somehow proved I was good enough to stay conscious. I almost asked the medic, then, when my leg was going to heal, because I knew my dad was going to worry like he always does over little things like me possibly being dead, so if it was healed tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind some new pants and a water bottle so I could sprint across a couple states as fast as possible.
