Burning Vacation

Screaming upon screaming—shrill, chaotic, desperate.

Frantic steps drummed across creaking floorboards, unsure of which way to turn.

Maybe left? Maybe right?

Both were wrong.

Glass burst from one end of the room, sprinkling shards over the dining table like a sad symphony, while wood splintered and snapped from the unforgiving pressure at the door on the opposite side.

Then all hell broke loose.

Shuffling. Moaning. Growling. And snarling. All tangled and twisted with their screams.

Squelching, wet flesh sickly accentuated the snapping of bone. The crunching perfectly timed in between each cry.

Sinew stretched and snapped like rubber bands. And tortured breaths rose in and out of rhythm that paired with a final, gutted gasp—then… more groaning. More open-mouth chewing with hunks of flesh slopping and falling to the bloodied floor.

I sighed.

Their feeding frenzy made my stomach growl like it was trying to audition for the next zombie role.

After four episodes of The Walking Dead, I finally made like one of the countless corpses I’d been mindlessly watching and peeled myself from the sticky, sweat-inducing pleather sofa to find something to eat.

I ran my hands down my lower back and flicked the moisture from them—only to dumbly try and dry them off on my equally damp abdomen. My sweats handled it from there.

I wandered through the mess of a house—if you could even call this miserable, shoe-box-sized trailer that—kicking empty beer cans that cluttered my feet as I moseyed along.

Invading the refrigerator’s personal space for the millionth time today, I shut the door, just as disappointed as the first time. Doing the same thing to the cupboards, I finally accepted the stale Cheerios, tossing the unsatisfactory breakfast into my mouth.

Watching out the window, the community in the small trailer park was just as trashy as my floor.

The desire to leave this place was strong. It itched and gnawed at my patience, just like the dictating bracelet on my ankle. I was stuck here. Six months into this hell hole from the mistake I made when I’d visited that awful night. I should have stayed at Mom’s. Why can’t I ever just listen?

With a deep sigh, I stuffed another handful of Cheerios into my mouth. Amused, the corner of my lips upturned. They should call these “Angry-os”… and you know who’s about to be angry? The lanky, old mail carrier who was approaching my mailbox.

He’d told me last week that if I didn’t clear out the box, he’d start flinging the envelopes at my door like a frisbee.

I chuckled. I still hadn’t cleared it. I couldn’t care less what was in there, buuut I do care about keeping the little amount of money I make from my dumbass job. And I’d rather not have to pay the HOA fee for “littering”—a $200 fee—yeah, no thanks.

Putting a little burst of energy into my steps, I abandoned the cereal box and jogged outside to the mailbox before Earl could beat me to it.

“Casey Vaneer. Pleasure to see you at your mailbox—for once,” Earl deadpanned.

Leaning an elbow against the box, I laughed. “What can I say? I’m responsible.”

He rolled his eyes, then focused on the neighbor’s box while I attempted to inconspicuously empty my cramped one. And I must say, I don’t know what was more shocking, the amount of mail or the fact that he’d managed to cram so much of it in without the whole thing exploding.

He flipped the lid to their box with an attitude, just thrilled to do mine next. But hey—it’s finally cleared!

I stepped aside, arms filled with envelopes, even a small package. The letters awkwardly fell here and there, which I tried to retrieve, but felt like an idiot so I’d let them be until Earl left.

“Need a hand?” he halfheartedly asked.

“No. I’m all good,” I insisted.

His droopy lids and frown said he disagreed with my statement.

I smiled and gestured to the newly emptied box as if to impress and excite him.

He expressed neither of those things. He simply flicked in the slim stack, shut it, which—why? Then he left, trudging past me to deliver my other neighbors’ mail.

I lifted my brows with a deep inhale. I was ready to go back inside. I’d had enough socializing for the day.

Opening the box, I struggled to obtain the new mail along with what was on the ground. But after some time spent embarrassing myself, I had collected it all.

Gingerly making my way back inside, I opened the floodgates of my arms and coated the couch in forgotten mail.

I sighed, regretting checking it already. The countless envelopes stamped with “Past Due” and “Open Immediately” made me feel hopeless. I sure as hell could use a pick-me-up… which, the single brown envelope with a classic Mustang stamp caught my eye.

My brows drew together as I picked it up, but once I saw who it was from, I scowled.

A reply from my father, or at least that’s what I hoped it was. I’d written to him months ago, but the fact that I was still here holding down the fort for him said everything. I didn’t even need to open the damn thing.

The thick paper crumpled under my grip. If only I could strangle him as easily as this…

I tossed it onto the counter and picked out the best cigarette butt I could find from the overflowing ashtray. Lighting it from the gas-lit stove, I stood there.

Where the hell is he? I laughed. “Well, if you’d open it, then you might know, dummy.”

Fed up, I inhaled as much nicotine-laced smoke as I was going to get from the short, little stick, then flicked it into the sour sink after only a minute or two of it burning.

How disappointing, just like my life.

I returned to the blackened tray to pick out another. Why even bother? This isn’t going to help me, just like whatever’s in that letter isn’t going to help, either.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a much-needed exhale.

I need to stop being so negative, or at least that’s what my therapist keeps telling me. Maybe I should give him a chance. He is my father after all…

Lighting the stump, I quickly savored it and then stubbed it out against the countertop, now anxious to see what he had to say. Maybe he is coming back. Maybe he had a good reason to delay his return.

Retrieving the abused paper, I quickly tore open the side. It was thick, so he must have a lot to say. That made me want to smile, but I held off. I can’t have him disappoint me by mail, too. He’d done that enough in person.

Unfolding the notebook paper, my eyes darted across each line.

Useless line.

Useless line.

Useless line.

What the fuck is this shit?

My anger was bubbling. No. Just hang on. Don’t throw away all the lessons I’d been learning in anger management. It’s cool. I’m cool.

Useless line.

Useless paragraph.

Jesus Christ, get on with it!

Uh-huh…

Uh-huh…

Who the fuck’s Barbara?!

I paused. Taking a breath to readjust my heated thoughts.

“Okay…” I whispered, returning to his words, but the more I read the more I frowned. And finally—my furious eyes came to the final sentence.

“And because of this, I can’t make it back for another six weeks.”

Six?!

My mouth stalled, as I stared at the scuffed, wood-paneled wall.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered with a bitter smile.

I stood there, empty-headed, only feeling and not thinking. Then a surge of anger awoke my mind.

I flung open the flimsy door, and marched outside, ready to demolish something. Something big, something that would put excitement into my life, but all I really had to destroy was this bullshit letter.

That was good enough for me!

I snagged the gas can from the shed, turned on my heel, and headed toward the street.

Placing the letter down, I doused it in gasoline.

Mrs. Felton from across the street was horrified by what I was doing and then petrified when I approached her because not only did I snatch the lit cigarette from her withered fingers, but my ankle bracelet was going off—high-pitched chirps that meant the police would be here in no time.

No matter. I could use a vacation, and anywhere was better than here, even if that meant the inside of a jail cell.

Looking at the letter once more, I smiled when I heard the sirens in the distance.

I took a drag. The warmth hitting me just right this time.

“Here’s to you, Dad.” I tossed the cigarette, and a small blaze engulfed the street.

How’s that for anger management?