Burning Feeling

(TW: Fire, death)

Inhale and wait for the burn. That’s how most of us live our lives in Surco Creek: Raymond on the porch replacing his oxygen tank with Cuban cigars and Marlboro cigarettes, Nessa in her third consecutive shift at the bar filling her lungs with hot, drunk slurs, and I here racing blindly, stupidly, into a field of flames. 

The intensity of my dreams is painfully erratic, but their content has always remained relatively the same: fresh air, fire, nothing, fresh air, fire, nothing. Tonight has been no different. I peel sticky sweat-drenched sheets from my skin and peek through the slats of the blinds. Red blinking numbers on my nightstand tell me it's just past midnight, and the paling light outside offers a hint of morning rain. 

I draw lazy circles on the window until it no longer feels like an electric charge is coursing my veins, but the fear of another nightmare keeps me wide awake. It feels so real, so imminent. I can't help but feel trepidation as the smell of smoke singes my nostrils. I watch dirt particles swirl in the street—they almost look like clouds of glitter in the dim light of an overhead lamp—as the wind picks up. There will be no morning rain, I concede, how foolish of me to think so.

I lay back down on my wet mattress and sigh, wishing for the sun to come up. With this drought, I am severely outnumbered in my prayer, but it doesn't stop me from letting my eyes flit from the clock to the window. Only four hours and twenty-six minutes left, I think as I close my eyes. Just inhale and wait for the burn. 

--

Surco Creek is a scorching sunspot that shows up on hardly any maps. A seven-year-long drought gave most an excuse to escape, but the few stragglers that remain, myself included, are tethered to the creek-less wasteland by guilt. And guilt has bondage that is hard to break. 

I reflect on this as I leave my apartment, one of the few that sits atop the stores on Main Street. As meager sun rays begin to tickle the sky, I walk past the usual main street suspects: a general store, bar, restaurant, hardware store, post office, flower market. Nessa Meyer yawns as she locks Surco Saloon and flips the Open! sign. Her charcoal hair is twisted into an elaborate up-do that shows off a sharp jawline and green black-winged eyes.

I've always been fond of Nessa, yet I am surprised at how difficult it is to construct her identity in my mind. She often melts into the background of Surco Creek; her bartender persona rarely cracks, but when it does, the woman left behind is someone different entirely. Without her revealing shirts and bar makeup, everything about her is wildly unremarkable, and she teeters unpoetically on the edge of existence.

She frowns when she sees me. “Jesus, Gwen, you scared me. Still having those dreams, I see.” I shrug. Nessa checks her watch. “It’s earlier than usual. I finally got that bridge club to leave.” When she laughs, it’s a deflated sound that barely manages to pierce the air. “Who knew Surco Saloon would be a jumping bridge joint for old men? ‘Cept I think it’s more than bridge, you should’ve seen the paper they were throwing down! Probably a habit they keep from their wives, huh? Anyway, tell me about these dreams of yours. How are they?”

I shrug again. “They’re getting worse,” I admit. “More urgent. You know, before, they were all just wispy, like flashes of something. But now I can feel it. I can feel the heat.”

Nessa considers. “That can’t be good. You talk to anyone about it other than me? Sounds like this is something to see a shrink for.”

“No, you’re the only one that really knows about them. And to be honest, I thought it would stay like that forever. But I’m getting worried. I just have this weird feeling that something, I don’t know, bad is going to happen,” I say. A bird screeches overhead, giving me a jolt. In the glass of the bar window, I catch my reflection. Perhaps I could have been called pretty at one time, but now my skin is ashen and bags have made a permanent settlement under my eyes. Gray like the sea, my father once told me. But the sea is blue!, I told him. No, he had said, everyone will tell you it’s blue. But they lie. And then they'll never believe you when you say it's gray. Do you understand? I hadn’t, but my father was a writer and like his stories, it was easier to pretend. Now I can see that my eyes are fog with a tired film coating their shine. 

Nessa shakes her head. “Something bad? Like what? Nothing ever happens in this stupid town! Honestly, if something bad is coming, I’ll welcome it with open arms. Look, Gwen, if you won’t see someone about this, you should come see me at work. Have a drink, loosen up a bit.” She gestures to the sign. “We’re open late, you know. You just need to relax.”

Suddenly I am embarrassed standing with Nessa looking anxious and disheveled and blabbering about my dreams. “Maybe you’re right,” I murmur. “I’ll let you go now, you’re probably exhausted.”

“Alrighty then. Take it easy, okay? I mean it in the best possible way when I say I hope I don’t see you again tomorrow morning,” she says. She slings a purse over her shoulder and reaches out to squeeze my elbow before plodding off down Main Street.

I wander around for the rest of the morning trying to shake a deep sense of dread. It doesn't leave me. The tangle in my stomach has been around for several days now, and it only seems to be getting worse as it writhes inside me and threatens to coil around my throat. 

The day heats up fast, too fast. Now off of Main Street, I pick my way through sleepy roads. I admire the smallness of the houses and the hominess of their porches. Windows are shuttered, curtains are drawn, lawns are left to brittle. 

My feet begin to burn with every step on the fried pavement, but I force myself to continue. Other than me, only Raymond Decker is out. "Well, howdy Gwen!" he shouts. 

I wait for him to finish hacking before I greet him. "Good morning. How are you doing?" I ask.

"Ahh, just dandy. Come sit," he says. "I'm in the mood for some company."

I crunch through his crusted grass (once a proud plot of emerald) and sit across from him on a wooden swing. Splinters dig into my bare legs and back and I wince. 

Raymond Decker is a plump man with an overly friendly personality and a chronic smoking problem. The oldest person in Surco Creek, Raymond has seen it all. 

A cigar dangles from his lips and two cigarettes smolder on a dish next to him. He pats his breast pocket where a box of them is undoubtedly stashed. "You want a cig?" he asks. "I've got plenty!"

I shake my head. Just the thought of smoke is enough to roil my breakfast. "Don't you get hot out here?" 

"It's better than the alternative! I must've told you about Clyde and Monroe, haven't I?" I nod, thinking of his beloved Siamese cats. "They don't like the smoke too much and I'm a sucker for those little faces. I spoil them silly, I guess."

I smile. "That's quite nice of you," I tell him. 

I watch his eyes sparkle as he thinks of his pets. He takes another drag on the cigar then swaps it for a cigarette. Multi-tasking, he says. His gaze turns serious. "And what about you?" he asks. 

"I'm fine," I lie. 

Raymond dabs at his forehead and mustache with a handkerchief. "I never told you this, but I use to work with your father, did you know that?"

My mouth goes completely dry. "Oh, I think I heard that before."

"Your father was a great man. He was one of my closest friends as I'm sure you're aware," Raymond says. A ring of smoke emerges from his mouth and he coughs again. "These lungs! Anyway, I loved your father. But I need you to know that what happened to him wasn't your fault."

I shift on the bench and look out across the road. Heatwaves sizzle, creating the illusion of puddles. A tumbleweed bounces by in small-town summer cliche fashion. The little houses that dot the landscape show no signs of movement. For that I am glad. Only Raymond is privy to my secret, and I want to keep it that way.

"It was," I tell him. "I should've been there. I should've stopped him."

"You couldn't have known," Raymond says gently. He sucks in a shaky breath. "None of us could've known."

"Except I did," I say. The tears start to fall as I think about that night. "He had just lost his book deal and his writing was being rejected left and right. He couldn't even get his poetry in the magazine he had been writing for for years! And I knew it. I knew how desperate he was." Raymond is quiet and my mind drifts. 

There's my father sitting at the kitchenette, slumped in defeat. "What's wrong, dad?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I lost the book, Gwen. I lost it." I see the bills stack up. I see the writing that covers the napkins and newspapers and torn envelopes. I see the rejection letters crumpled in the trash along with coffee filters and pencil stubs and the remnants of his TV dinners. I see his ink-stained fingers and the sadness in his eyes. 

But mostly, I see the flames. I see him gathering his life's work and torching it right there in a fit of rage, and I see the terror as he realizes what he's done and realizes that there's no escape. Fresh air, fire, nothing. All he can do is inhale and wait for the burn. 

"I'm so sorry," Raymond says. "But you can't blame yourself." He squashes his half-finished cigarette on the ashtray and looks at me with chocolate-honey eyes that are as brilliant as always. A wave of premonition bruises my gut.

"The thing is, I have a feeling it's going to happen again. I can't explain it, I just know."

Raymond shakes his head. With great struggle, he leans forward and dumps the ashes in the yard. The gray stains on my shoes tell me he's been doing this for a long time. "You're grieving. You can't keep punishing yourself," he says.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Gwen, I've lived a long life. Do you think I would still be here if I gave in to all my feelings? I want to believe you, I do. But there's a point when you need to let things go."

I stand up, my face stinging. "Have a good day, Raymond," I say curtly. 

"Ah, come on, don't be like that! Gwen! Gwen!" But I'm already traipsing down the street. 

The air is thick with the scent of burned weeds and hot cement, and all I want to do is lay down and feel the rawness of the heat on my skin. Feel blisters and chapped lips and scalding earth. 

I'm ashamed that even after all these years, I haven't learned my lesson. The people of Surco Creek are never who they claim to be, and they never change. 

--

That night, I am hit with a blaze that is so powerful I awake with a scream. My dreams are no longer muddied and muted, and my thudding heart agrees. My skin is cracked and inflamed, my lungs tight. 

Once the sun is up, I slip out the back to avoid Nessa and let my feet carry me to a dilapidated structure that hasn't been lived in for years. The charred outer walls have nothing on the blackened inside, and my throat clogs at the memories. 

I force myself to push past the threshold and take in the scene, one that I've only ever seen in my dreams. 

Almost everything is burned beyond identification save for the kitchen table and the desk in my father's study. But even those items are on the verge of collapsing into the ashes around them.

My toe bumps a small box on the ground that has taken cover underneath the dishwasher. I am surprised to see that it contains matches, still good. 

I leave my father's house and final resting place quickly before I pass out and it becomes my final resting place too. Plants have reclaimed the yard outside, and their shriveled carcasses are held static in the wind-less air, just waiting for a spark...

The matches are not in as good of condition as I had thought. Most of them are splintered and rotting and covered in black dust. I pick one of the better ones out and admire its sheer power. How can one tiny wooden stick cause so much damage?

Before I realize I'm doing it, I strike the match across the box. The flame whooshes to life and then settles into a wobble on the head. It slowly eats its way towards my fingers, but I'm too mesmerized to notice. 

My fingers start to tingle as the flame dances too close. I should blow it out, but my arm is paralyzed by fear. A slight breeze ruffles Surco Creek, and it's enough to send the match falling from my fingers. 

My breath catches. What have I done? My head whirls and I make no noise as the flame instantly devours the kindling littering the ground below. I start to run, not caring to see the growing conflagration behind me. 

It's stupid to run from a fire, but just as stupid to run into one, something I know much too well. All I can do is inhale and wait for the burn.