Because This Story is Perfectly Bizarre

I...yeah, I don't know. Enjoy.

Dear Girly,

You might not remember me. In fact, I’d be surprised if you did – delighted, sure, but surprised. There’d be no reason for you to remember me. I’m sure that I’m nothing but another name to you at this point. Just another name that you check off on your endless list of conquered men and broken hearts – been there, done him, etc.

Don’t think this letter means that I’m one of those fools who have fallen in love with you. You’re just someone who I suspect would still be reading this, still be interested. Even if it’s just idle curiosity, well, that’s better than pity.

Do you know where I am, girly? I’m staring at a burning house right now. The flames started in the kitchen. Something went wrong with the stove, and tongues of flame began licking upwards, slowly peeling off the cheap wallpaper, curling it and crumbling it into dust. The flames, spreading outwards, caught on the gasoline that I’d sloshed around the floors, climbing higher, consuming more.

Where are you right now? What are you smelling? What are you seeing with those huge green eyes of yours? Are you looking up at the deepening twilight in a field somewhere? You’d be sprawled out on wet grass, lost in the dark above you, living in that moment only for the pinpricks swirling above you – dead light that is so old the number has no meaning. Or are you in some bed somewhere, exploring – like a conquistador – the body of another unsuspecting boy? Are you making him love you?

If you could see this! The flames are climbing higher and higher. It’s a better show than the best Fourth of July fireworks bonanza ever. It is eating all of their knickknacks and clothes - furniture and old photographs all broken down into the same ash. The smoke is whirling and shifting – I’d swear I could see faces in it, if that wasn’t absolutely crazy.

I still remember your face. I remember the way it was rounded in all of the places you’d expect it to be sharp – false angles hidden away in your face. It’s a unique face, a face made in a poet’s dream, or a sculptor’s nightmare. Listen to me – I sound like I’m madly in love with you. The truth is I’m not. Your face comes to mind and I feel nothing. No gut wrenching longing or bitter regret. I’m just curious about you. I’m curious about why you do the things you do. What you get out of all of those boys. What you find out about yourself. Not that I’ll ever know, and even if I do, it won’t change my life. Still though, I’m curious.

Have you ever really seen an out-of-control fire? It really is something to behold; an untamed force that eats and eats and eats. Even still, this house’s death is strangely quiet. Dignified. As if it was saying, hell, if I have to go out like this, I might as well make the best of it.

Making the best of it. That’s what we’re all doing, isn’t it? We’re just taking all of this stuff that life throws at us and simply making do. It’s how disaster victims recover their lives, I’d imagine. Picture it; you evacuate your suburban neighborhood because of a coming flood. You watch on the news as your town is destroyed, carried away on raging waters or simply drowned under a river. The water recedes and you go back, picking your way through debris and the detritus of what was once a town. Everything you own is destroyed – except for a single record collection, or a set of yearbooks, a favored coffee mug. Something. Wouldn’t you treasure that thing? Wouldn’t you cement the idea that you could rebuild your life around that one thing? Wouldn’t you have to live?

Sure, it’s just a coffee mug, girly, but it could end up meaning so much more.

Like at this house here, where I am. I’m sure this fire won’t burn everything. Even now I get the sense that it’s slowing, the mad rush of energy coasting to a halt. There will be things for this family to find – did I mention that? There’s a family of five that lives in this house. Two boys and a girl. Pretty kids. Happy. Stable. Secure. Or they were, until some crazy bastard came along and set their house on fire. I wonder what they’ll find. Don’t you?

Sincerely,