Cinders

[This creative work centers around death and, naturally, may be unsuitable for some readers. There is also a brief, mildly-grotesque description near the end. Reader discretion is advised~]

A screech pierces the air as the steam spews into it. It smells almost of hibiscus; it’s bittersweet with lavender notes. The smell is overpowered by the squeal. The boiling water, lapping violently at the walls, striving for its escape through the tiny hole covering the spout, screams from the heat. The herbs have long since withered and gone to mush, their essence absorbed by the water and diffused into the air. The water isn’t much longer though, it’s already reduced to simmering the herbs, burning them into the metal. The air has turned to scorched tin and smoke, thin but pungent, it creeps along the ceiling, finding release in a vent. It snakes its way up, billowing out behind the oak headboard. Gerald sniffs as the veil of bitter metallic air washes over him. With a groan, he rolls and stretches. His long frame extends past the two opposing corners of the full size bed. He sits up. There’s an empty space where Melody should be, and the bedding there is cold. She must have put the tea on, he thinks. But why has she let it boil off? That’s not like her.

“Honey?” he calls into the dim hallway. It’s still early, by 7 the hall would be full of light, so Gerald determined it must be maybe 6, or shortly before then. With no reply, and since it’s much earlier than they’d usually be up, he rolls the other way, off of the bed and onto his feet. The floor is ice, as are his feet. They even have a tinge of blue under the nails. That’s funny, he notes, my feet are usually drippin’ sweat but I barely feel my toes, it's freezing in here. He pauses, wondering if he should put on socks. It’s a brief thought, as he’s more curious than uncomfortable. Curious where Melody is. He powers through and pads down the hall, first stopping at the bathroom. He goes to the toilet and sits to gather his thoughts while he goes. I hope she’s okay, she’s usually on top of tea and breakfast. He remembers all the times he’s woken up to her bringing in a cup of tea and a breakfast sandwich, greeting him with a kiss and a warm smile. He’d loved those days, they were always the best. She’d then open the curtains and the room would flood with radiance, beaming from around her.

But it’s too early. The sun hasn’t come up yet, the house is still fairly dark. Melody doesn’t much care for darkness, she leaves a trail of light usually. Gerald finishes on the toilet and pulls up his briefs. He gives his hands a quick rinse in a lackluster display of hygiene. He dries his hands on the towel hanging by the door, a filthy gray stain streaking onto it. Gerald gasps and stares blankly. I know I don’t wash them enough but they can’t be that dirty. He turns the water on again, this time paying proper attention. He scowls in confusion and frustration as a mostly-opaque gray liquid comes falling out of the tap. The burning metal smell gets stronger as the tap runs. Gerald turns it off. He wipes the muck off his hands and steps out of the bathroom, looking back to the bedroom. She hadn’t slipped by and gotten back in bed, so she must be downstairs, he speculates, maybe she went into the garage for something from the deep freeze, I’ll check there. He starts down the stairs, the frames on the wall all perfectly aligned, except for one. His favorite, a picture of Melody and him in front of the house, Melody dangling some keys towards the camera. They’d just bought the house, the picture is barely three years old in its crooked frame. He fixes it then carries on down the stairs. 

“Melody, honey,” he calls, “the faucet’s putting out some weird gunky stuff.” The door to the garage is right off the stairs, so he peaks in the garage. Nothing, just their car. Their bikes hang upside down on hooks from the ceiling at the far end of the garage, just above the deep freeze. Melody’s gardening supplies sit in a wheelbarrow near the bikes, Geralds woodworking equipment taking up the rest of the space in their ample double garage. The ground is caked in saw dust. I guess I’ll need to clean my workshop today, he sighs with the thought. He’d prefer to save most of the cleanup for after projects, and he only has a few bits left on the jewelry box he’s making for Melody for their anniversary. Maybe I’ll finish the gift today, then cleanup. He shuts the door and continues to the dining room. A quick glance shows she’s not there. His face twists as a sense of dismay shudders through him. Where the hell is she? He hurries to the kitchen, the kettle’s whistle has stopped but the sickly-sweet, burning metal smell is the strongest here. The stove is still on, narrow blue flames clawing at the edges of the kettle’s base. Clearing the whole room with two massive steps, Gerald reaches the stove and shuts it off. Without a thought he grabs the handle to move it off the stove. It singes his hand and he drops it, his yelp competing for space with the clattering of the kettle on the floor. Running the cold water, his hand plunges under the flow and he breathes through gritted teeth as his hand shakes. The water is a lighter gray, but still dark enough to see on a towel. After he pats it dry, he inspects his hand, prepared to see the handle imprinted on his palm.

There’s nothing. It’s completely fine, no redness, no swelling, and certainly not the blistering mess he’d expected. No way, there’s no way, that handle burned me, I heard my skin squeal, I felt the metal, it– his thoughts trail off for a moment. He shakes his head, trying to focus. His hand doesn’t hurt but he can’t shake the strange tingle that’s developing. Where’s Melody?

Holding the weird appendage in his other hand, he limbers down the hall towards the living room at the back of the house. A rustling flutters his heart, he hears something that doesn’t sound like Melody. It’s still familiar, but– impossible. Sally died months ago, but that sounds just like her tail thumping the wall. She’d always be cheery and her tail would wag endlessly, but she was too old to meet us at the door. I remember when we painted the walls. We left that little worn strip as a reminder of her. He creeps slowly into the room. The mark becomes visible as he moves past the coffee table. As he continues, he sees the tail slap the wall and he's taken aback. He stares as the tail again hits the wall. Terrible excitement wells in him. He fights the urge to run. Something is obviously wrong. Where’s Melody? Is this really Sally? Why is his arm beginning to tingle too, he wonders. 

With a deep breath, inhaling a cool, stale air, he pushes forward and sees Sally, her droopy face and floppy ears shaking as her tail becomes a blur. Gerald’s exhale stalls. He sputters it out as he tries to understand the sudden wellbeing of his previously dead beagle, one who at the moment was creating such movement as to shake the coffee table a foot away. He takes a hasty step towards her. She doesn’t move towards him. She clearly sees him, and would usually be waddling her way to him to get love and attention, but she just stays in her little bed, shifting it about with her tail wagging, her whole body curving and thrashing with excitement. Gerald rubs his eyes, thinking maybe he’s still asleep. He opens them, to see just an empty floor and a worn streak in a sea of fresh paint. A calming sadness floods his eyes. He sniffles and clears his throat, turning back to the task at hand while he tries to ignore what he assumes must have been a mind trick from sleep deprivation.

Under the stairs to the second level are the stairs to the basement. Melody wouldn’t really have any reason to be down there this early. There are just some holiday lights and various other assorted stored items, the mower is down there too. The wall opposite where the stairs come down has a roll-up door that leads to the side yard and then the rest of the yard, so what better place for the machine. He didn’t like that they stored it and the gas down there. Gerald had talked to Melody a lot about wanting to build a shed in their backyard, but they’d put off that project for another summer.

He decides to check down there anyways, she wasn’t anywhere else to be found. The steps creak and groan as he steps as softly as he can down the long, tedious flight of splintering stairs. Another project. We had the budget for a smaller but completely finished home, why did I push for this absolute money pit? He thinks while he carefully dismounts the delicate structure, his hand sliding on the hand rail. A thin strip of wood slides into a groove on his palm and buries itself. He winces, then gasps as the pain dissipates. He gives a soft, almost silent groan as this hand begins tingling too. It’s not as intense as the tingling in the hand he’d thought he burned, but it stretched further faster. Both arms now have a light but disturbing tingle traveling up the length of them.

He remembers why they picked that house when he turns and sees it under the stairs. The doll house he’d made Melody. It wasn’t a perfect replica, but he’d designed and built that model. They happened to find this house with nearly the same layout and all. The only differences were some closets being in different spots, rooms shifted slightly because of it. They were essentially the same house, just vastly different sizes and functionality. 

She’s not here. She’s not upstairs. She’s not in the dining room or living room. He climbs up the stairs, trying to brace himself on anything but the wobbling platforms of the steps. Each step feels twice as dangerous as the one prior. He’s nearly to the top, only a couple steps left but these were always the scariest. He couldn’t be less than 10 feet up, and these last two steps weren’t even nailed in. The basement stairs are such a dangerous feat they typically opt to just use the roll-up door, accessing it only from the side. He hadn’t put his slippers on, or even a robe, so he has to use the stairs, can’t walk around outside in his underwear. He manages the first one okay, but the second slips as he begins stepping onto the solid floor of the main level. He teeters on the edge, his heels hanging off. With an awkward lunge, he throws himself forward then gracefully carries on towards the front door. Of course she wasn’t there to see that. He scoffs at such a missed opportunity to woo his beloved. I’ll toss on a robe and slippers and check the yard I suppose.

As he passes the kitchen he hears a hiss. The blue claws are assaulting the kettle again.

“Melody! Why’d you turn the stove on again?” he shouts, bounding towards the heat. He shuts it off and wheels around. Where is she? She couldn’t have gotten around the house that quickly without me hearing, this old place is too loud.

He takes the steps two-by-two and hurries to get his robe on. He walks into his slippers and heads back down the stairs. In his haste, he misses a step. He falls back, squarely onto his hip. He rolls, falling down another step and clipping his tail bone. Like his other injuries, a flicker of pain, nothing, then a growing tingle. He comes to a rest on the bottom of the stairs. The tingling radiates down each leg, then back up. All his extremities have the same sensation coursing through them. He can’t understand it, his heart starts racing. Do I need an ambulance? His mind reels, no, I should find Melody first, she can help me, I’ll be okay, I just need to find Melody.

The claws hiss again. Gerald’s head snaps to face the kitchen. He stumbles to the kitchen, throwing himself through the doorway, expecting to see Melody at the stove putting water in the kettle. But it's just the stove.

And the kettle. The royal and azure flames are higher now, wholly swallowing the underside and edge of the kettle. The tips climb the outside, tickling the handle. 

“Melody! What the hell!” Gerald again rushes to the stove. He flicks the knob all the way over, the fire dims, flashes, then vanishes completely. A quiet darkness fills the room. Then blue and red scan silently along the wall. Gerald watches them, tracing their origin to beyond the window. He peers outside, squinting against the violent lights bombarding him. His hand blocking most of the light, he sees fire trucks, an ambulance, various emergency responders. And he sees Melody.

“Melody!” he shouts, relieved confusion filling his mind. He turns to leave, but once more the hiss stops him in his tracks. He looks at the stove. Once more, the blue claws held the kettle like a beggar with an empty soup bowl, pleading for sustenance. He gently steps over, afraid to go near. Swallowing his fear, he snaps the knob to the side, the flames disappear. He puts it out of his head as best he can, he’s finally found Melody. He rushes to the door, his limbs in a cold sizzle under his skin. He flings open the door and rushes out, his legs weary but carrying him still, towards Melody. He reaches her. She’s crying. Sobbing, actually. There’s a fire marshal talking to her.

“We’re so sorry miss,” he says, a morose tone in his voice, “the fire was too hot, the structure was too unstable, we couldn’t get to your husband.”

Melody collapses, her head buried in her palms as she screams. Husband? Gerald thinks. He hasn’t proposed yet, but he’d planned it all out, just waiting for the ring—

Wait, couldn’t save? His breath stops. He looks down at Melody, her nightgown stained with ash and smoke. He collapses next to her, reaching to hug her. His weight follows and he falls through her, his chest exploding with the sizzling feeling. It’s different though. This time it’s colder, and it hurts. A cold, burning ache. He cries out in pain. Rolling over, he sees that nobody heard him. They don’t acknowledge him, and his heart sinks. No. No no no. This can’t be happening. I can’t be dead. Life was just starting. He pulls himself to his knees. He tries again to hold her. He again falls through her. His chest, again, explodes. 

He struggles and stumbles to his feet. He can feel despair rising in his chest. Turning to face the house, he sees nothing but smoldering rubble. He staggers his way closer, only managing a couple feet before collapsing again. He strains to see more of the cinders and ash as he listens to the marshal.

“The stove was the source. It looks like a kitchen rag may have fallen near it, that started the blaze. Then it just started to spread. The workshop in the garage and the gas and mower in the basement likely contributed to the intensity and rapid spread–” his voice fades. All Gerald can hear is Melody’s wails and a sharp ringing. He pulls himself closer. His legs fade to ash as they drag behind him. He struggles over the curb, his hips sprinkling across it and the edge of the lawn. His entrails scatter through the grass as his arms, a fuzzy and warm feeling filling them, pull him closer to the charcoal pile that was his home. By the time he reaches the threshold of the house, his chest has begun to dissipate in the flower bed, fertilizing a charred rosebush. The floor of the bedroom had given out during the blaze. He can see the bed. The jagged, smoldering debris that made a floor felt no different to him as he dragged himself into what was once the kitchen. A quiet terror fills whats left of him. With his remaining shoulder, arm, and head, he pulls himself to the bedside. Just in time, his arm begins to crumble as he hoists himself up. The most terrible peace swirls in his head as he looks over the bed. He sees his body, or what he can only assume is his body. A charred, deformed carcass where he’d typically sleep. The terror subsides as the ashes of his neck begin to fall and add to the rubble. Peace fills him as he looks to the sky and sees streaks of gold and blue across it. He lets out a last whisper.

“Melody,” with it the ashes that made his head swirl in a breeze and begin to rise. With another whisper, not his own, Gerald disappears, the ashes scattered with the breeze, rising to meet the sun.

~