The Pyre

Sam looks around at the people invading his house and he can feel his nerves already starting to fray. It doesn't matter what Debbie says dear, we've talked about this having the people come to you gives the impression of being magnanimous they come here to see you as much as your collection all these strangers makes him want to hide in his office and never come out.

Is this the way things are gonna be like now? Just people walking into his home for 7 hours every day? We have to be open on the weekend as well, dear, some people work for a living. Just because of his stupid elephants.

He walks along the exhibit, hands behind his back, just taking in the rows upon rows of the thousands of elephants of all sizes and materials in the gigantic glass cage. He can't see the ones he got from his father – guess Debbie thought they were too plain to have up front.

There was a time when he travelled around to flea markets, auctions and even different countries to get a hold of these things. Now he has other people do it for him it's much more efficient this way, dear, one man can only do so much, after all and he no longer feels any connection to most of them. That jade one standing on two legs? Probably from China, but he doesn't know for sure. The giant porselain elephant with the woman dancing on its back? Very beautiful, but no idea where the team got it from.

It's simply a collection of false advertisements for memories that never happened. It all just feels like... a scam.

”And here's our collector himself, Mr. Samuel Whitaker.” Debbie's voice suddenly cuts through his internal monologue, her high-spirited, chirpy demeanor instantly giving him a headache. He forces his lips to form a smile you can't walk around looking all glum, dear, presentability is the key to success and turns around to meet the gaggle of people that Debbie has corralled him with. A family of four, but it's clear that it's only the husband who's interested in speaking with him. The wife seems bored, while their two boys are having a silent pinching-match, each trying to get their brother in trouble.

”Mr. Whitaker, Douglas Fremont,” the man reaches out and grabs hold of Sam's hand in a dominating handshake, ”I'm a bit of a collector myself, although I specialize in paintings from Germany during the Second World War.”

Oh God, a braggart. Fun. ”Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fremont. I'm afraid my collection has more of a personal value than a monetary one.”

”It is a... quaint hobby, for sure,” Sam can practically taste the sarcasm, ”Why elephants?”

Sam's smile doesn't budge as he tells the same story he has told a million times already. ”Well, when I was a boy my father would always bring home something that had the form of an elephant from his travels. When he died I just kept collecting them to keep his memory alive and here we are.”

He doesn't tell them that his father slept with his secretary every time he went on those trips. For six years no one else even suspected a thing, until one day Sam and his mother flew down to one of his business trips to surprise him and found his father dick deep in the woman. He also doesn't tell them that he started to collect elephants because he, according to his theraphist, were desperate to connect himself to the few good memories he had of his father. And here we are.

Fremont hums. ”I see. It's an admirable thing, to dedicate so much time and money to keep your father's memory alive. Well, I shouldn't take up more of your time, Mr. Whitaker. I wish you luck on your future endevours,” he says cordially, gives Sam's hand another firm shake before walking off walking with his family in tow, not glancing at the elephants even once.

Sam's smile falls the moment the family's focus slides away from him. Liar. If Sam knows anything about people like Douglas Fremont, he'll be on his phone with his collector buddies, suckling on a cigarr, chuckling about the quaint collector he visitied earlier who doesn't collect things of real value.

Asshole.

”And here's our collector himself, Mr. Samuel Whitaker.”

Sam takes a deep breath, forces the smile on his lips once again and turns around. Here we go again.

///

There. The tourists are gone. Debbie has gone home I'll see you bright and early tomorrow, dear. The house is finally silent again.

Sam's stomach growls, displeased at only having had a toast in all of today. What should he eat? Just the thought of cooking something makes his tired body ache. Maybe he would warm up a pizza instead. But not now. Later.

He sinks down in his favorite chair, leans back with a sigh. Tries to soak in the silence. It doesn't work anymore. This was where he used to sit to think, to plan his next story, but now all he can think about is that he'll have to do everything over again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

He gets up, frustrated, stomps over to his carafe of red wine and is halfway through pouring a glass when he sees something bright at the corner of his eye. There's something on the Monet-painting, the one he got from his mother when he turned 25. Something neon green is stuck on the frame. He reaches out and touches it with a fingertip.

It's gum. Chewing gum.

There's a loud crash, and it's not until he sees the glass spreading out over the floorboards that he realizes that he's thrown his carafe at the wall. The wine slowly drips down the wallpaper. It almost looks like blood. If he decided to blow his brains out tonight, would his blood run down in the same pattern?

No. Nonono. He slumps down into his chair, cold sweat running down his back at the terrible thought. He doesn't want to die... does he? There must be some enjoyment he's getting out of life, right?

…No. There's nothing. Where did all the fun go?

He shakes his head as he stands up again. No, there has to be something here. Something that makes all the time and money he has spent collecting those stupid elephants mean something.

He will meet new people! Who will trample all over his house and let their kids carve their initials into his furniture and put gum on his paintings.

He doesn't have to work as much anymore to make money! He won't even have any time to write anything if he has to spend his days telling anecdotes and shaking hands.

It will let him leave a legacy! What kind of impact could a collection of elephants have on future generations? He will be nothing but a joke in the history books, an eccentric old man who gathered useless trinkets until he died.

Because that's it, right? This is how he's gonna spend the rest of his life, isn't it? Debbie would never let him walk away from this; there was too much money at stake for the both of them. Unless the public got bored of it completely, he would have to deal with all of them. And even if they lost interest, he would still be remembered for nothing else but having those fucking elephants.

Goddamn it.

It takes less than a minute for him to throw on his jacket and grab his keys, and if he slams the door behind him a little harder than necessary no one is there to know. A walk would help. And then some food. And then sleep. Things would seem brighter tomorrow.

Right.

He's only just reached the gates when – drip – a fat drop lands on his bare head, just one of many to follow, as the sky opens above him and drenches him in seconds. Wonderful, how could things get possibly worse? He glares up at the sky, but the black clouds takes him aback. Those looks like thunderclouds, and angry ones at that. Maybe he should – and the world goes white.

He quickly brings his hands over his ears, but it is too late – the loud crack of thunder is making his head throb, and the ground shakes under his feet. That had to have been very close... Where did it hit?

There is light behind his back.

He turns around. There's a glow coming from the museum. Did he forget to turn off the lights?

No... The light is too warm, too animated. Flickering like a candle. Like a flame.

Holy shit. The lightning struck his house.

The fire spreads rapidly and not even thirty seconds after he saw the first flames the whole room is lit up in orange.

Anyone else would probably be freaking out. Maybe screaming or crying. Would probably at least feel something negative at least. But Sam doesn't. As he watches the room go up in flames, a bubbly feeling starts to erupt from deep within his body.

What is this feeling?

It feels like when he first got to pet the neighbour's kitten when he was ten. Or like when he got his first paycheck for a novella that he wrote. Or like when his mother finally smiled again when he taught himself how to bake her special cookies. Or –

Oh. It's elation. Happiness.

Like a bull bursting through a fence, his laughter comes suddenly and loudly. He laughs and laughs as his tiny museum is catching more and more on fire. He should move, call someone, but he can't bring himself to do anything else than take the next breath and let it escape as laughter.

From inside there's the sound of glass shattering and he can imagine the sight of thousands of elephants writhing in the flames, desperately trying to avoid their fate. But they can't: their legs of wood, glass, ceramics and copper binds them to the spot. All they can do is watch as the fire consumes them. If he listens very, very closely, he can almost hear the fearful trumpets mixed in the crackling of the fire.

Burn, baby, burn.

Oh shit, fhe flames are slowly crawling towards the rest of his house. Maybe he should call the firefighters after all. Fuck the elephants, but he doesn't want to lose everything he owns.

It will probably not take more than five minutes for the firefighters to get here. In the morning there'll be newsvans and curious neighbours. And Debbie. She's going to lose her shit.

He snorts. Serves her right, really. Who was she to take over his life? From now on he will stand up for himself, not allow himself to be pushed around. Had he really been about to just accept her ruling over him? And for what? For collecting elephants? For trying to hold on to a father that didn't give a shit about him? Fuck that.

Well, he certainly isn't going to fall into that trap again. Can't expect lightning to save him twice.

Things were going to be noisy for a while. He'll play the part of devastated collector mourning his trinkets. He'll give Debbie a thank you-bonus for all her hard work before sending her on her way. He'll move out to the countryside and start working on the book that has been screaming in his head for the last three years. In the end he'll have his peace, his quiet and his silence, for the rest of his life, if he has anything to say about it. No more tourists. No more Debbie. No more elephants.

He takes a deep breath, forces the happiness down into the deepest part of his heart, and presses Emergency Contact'.

”Emergency, which service?”

”Yes, hello, this is Samuel Whitaker. My house is on fire.”