Smokey

Hello. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? That's funny. Of course, time is a funny thing. For example, today is the third of November. I don’t think you knew that, beforehand. What year is it, do you think? Is it last year? Is it this year? Or is it some year that hasn’t happened yet? That doesn’t matter, or course, as the only time we can really deal with is the present. The future is something to be plotted for, and the past is something to use in your plots. Nothing more than that. 

You do not need this kind of chat right now, though. You need to get out of the cold. What on earth are you doing? Why do you have that gasoline? A further question, where did you get that gasoline? Seems a bit shady. 

Oh, I suppose it would be a good idea to mention the setting. That’s important, apparently. Why do you think that is? Why can’t you just be floating in a nameless void with a can of gasoline? That sounds nice. Unfortunately, you are not floating in a nameless void. The void’s name is Jared. Okay, maybe not that, either. You’re at home. Not the home you went to, it’s the home you left. The real one. Do you remember? Your sister dying? Camilla, that was her name. It’s been a few years. Do you remember Camilla?

Of course you do, ‘cause you’re staring at her gravestone. It’s hard to forget someone when their name is right in front of you. The wind stings your eyes as you reach out to brush a pine needle off of the grave. Dry pine needles are rather flammable, you know. Might not need the gasoline for whatever you’re going to do. 

Speaking of pine needles, they’re very crunchy. You seem to realize that as they go snap snap snap under your shoes. The reason they’re going snap snap snap is due to the fact that you’re walking on them, away from your sister’s grave. Come to think of it, most things go snap when you step on them. Not pinecones, though, those malicious little things  will take your ankle out. 

Hey, there it is. That’s your home. You know that, of course. You know where it is, or you’d be very, very lost right now. Your grip tightens on the handle of your gasoline can. Is that bad? Is it good? We’ve still not cleared up why you have the gasoline. That seems like the most important issue at the moment. Is it actually a watering can? Are you going to water those lilac bushes over there? You know, the ones you and Camilla would go play hide and seek in? 

Oh, the bushes are dead. That’s sad. They were nice bushes, too, and had lots of flowers for most of the spring and summer. Hold on, wait a moment, stop that. Cease and desist, my fair comrade. Why are you pouring gas on the bushes? That won’t help them grow at all. 

What on earth are you doing? There’s no reason to set this on fire. There’s no reason to be here, either, if we’re being honest. Why are you tossing kindle in the front door? Right on the hardwood floors, too. You and Camilla had held races, slipping and sliding down those floors with socks. You’d gotten a concussion once. Why burn that? Why burn anything, for that matter? What is it with you and arson? Does it count as arson if you’re burning your own property? 

Either way, it’s not the best idea. Oh, you’re going inside now. It’s not like there aren't any gasoline fumes or rotten beams inside the building, no, how on earth could that happen. It’s absolutely impossible that this could lead to anything bad. How inconceivable. 

Your mom would have been cross at you for muddying the floors, you remember. Now there isn’t much point, as years of abandonment have coated the hardwood with filth. The door to the kitchen has almost fallen off its hinges, as well. That really can’t be good. Why was there a door to the kitchen, anyway? Seems like the sort of place you’d have open. Were there illegal dealings in your kitchen? Covert pasta?

No, but there’s something else in there right now, which is quite a bit more concerning than covert pasta. You try the door handle, but it just comes off in your hand. Of course, that leaves a convenient gap to see through, so guess what you do? That’s right, you try to see through the hole you’ve just created, and not the big gaping one that’s just to the left of the door. 

You have no idea what it is, but it isn’t a human. For example, humans do not have tails. They do not meow, either. Never mind, you know what it is. Your next problem, after identifying the species of your intruder, is to get the door open without bringing the while house down. Or you could, you know, just go in through that hole that I mentioned a moment ago, like someone with more than three brain cells. But you seem to have two brain cells, so you’re trying to ease the door open as slowly as you can. How long do you think we’re going to be here? I’ll give it five minutes until you can get a foot in the door. 

You’ve thrown off my predictions. These predictions didn’t take into account that there are pine needles on the floor, which are quite slippery. Guess what? You slipped. Right into the door, too. That’s got to be one frightened kitty. You get up, slowly, glad that you’ve avoided the glass from the shattered window. 

The kitty is gnawing on your leg. It does not seem frightened. It seems rather annoyed that you’ve crossed it, and- Oh, oh dear, that’s blood. A trip to the vet would be in order after this, remember that. Come on, get your leg away from the little monster. It’s cute, right? All orange and black and pale white patches. 

You stand up, rubbing the back of your head. It’s still attached to your leg. C’mon, there might be others. You need to check the rest of your house. Would you ever be able to sleep again if there was a kitty left in the house? First under the sink, then the cupboards, et cetera. Until you’re done searching the house, I shall narrate the kitty’s actions instead. 

The kitty is still attached to your leg. These jeans will never be the same again. This is a good point to mention that this is not a kitty so much as a kitten, and you’ve decided to name it Smokey. That could be why it’s chewing on your leg. Cats teeth too, remember? Still, there are lots of things to chew in the kitchen. Like the door you just knocked over, for example, which is what it’s chewing on now. 

Smokey’s just given up on the door, and is following you out of the kitchen. You’re going upstairs, and it’s having a bit of trouble with the stairs. Be careful, it might start going for your leg again. There it goes. Why not just pick it up? That seems like a good idea. Pick up the fluffy ball of anger and sharp things, nothing could go wrong.

You pick it up and are suddenly in a measurable amount of pain. Maybe put it down again, that seems like a much better thing to do. There we go. The kitten continues following you while you check the upstairs, much like a shadow with nothing else to do. There are no other kitties in your old home, but there is an empty nest in the attic. And a lot of spiders. Way too many spiders. 

You’ve just left the house, and the kitten is no longer trying to commit murder. It will, however, be an accomplice to arson. You’ve tossed the gas can back in the house and there’s a lighter in the hand that isn’t trying to keep Smokey from drinking gasoline. Oh dear, you’ve flicked the lighter on. Don’t throw it in the gasoline. 

You’re holding the lighter quite delicately, my friend. Smokey has given up on it’s gasoline smoothie, and is watching the fire with the same curiosity you are. What are you thinking? What’s the look you’ve got in your eyes? I don’t recognize it. Nostalgia, perhaps, or the feeling you get when you go for a walk in the rain. Are you going to toss the lighter? Are you going to put all that away? Is it like burying your sister again? You’re hesitating. You’re thinking. You’re thinking about Camilla, and mum, and dad, and the fireflies that used to dance at night. 

Then Smokey tries to bite your finger off, and you accidentally drop the lighter. Whoops.