//------------------------------// // 4 In Which Sick Fires Are Dealt. Two Hearts Break // Story: Our Not So Simple Plan // by WolfmanWhite //------------------------------// Okay. Okay. Let’s review here… I just hiccuped out a bolt of flame. I just set an aisle of alcoholic spirits on fire. Don’t panic. Panic breeds more fire. Try not to catch fire. Fire! As the flames licked the shelving and caressed the bottles, I tried my best to follow mental note number three. But try as I might, I just couldn’t cope. Each time I attempted to force myself to stop hiccupping, I gagged, which would release an even bigger torrent of flame that ended up popping more bottles of spirits. I slumped to the floor, my legs sprawled in a childish attempt at sitting, and tried to focus on my breathing. In, out. In, out. In, ou-thwush! My stomach was roiling like a perfect, acidic storm. My breathing was torn and ragged, interspersed with painful, vomiting gouts of flaming anxiety. The fire danced a hypnotic pattern on the spilt alcohol on the floor, which would have been relaxing if it wasn’t happening a few inches in front of my face. I couldn’t move. Each time I so much as quivered, my stomach rebelled and added to the inferno. I curled up into a fetal ball and cried in pain, in fear, in anxiety. The fire alarm finally kicked into high gear, assaulting my ear-holes with high pitched screaming that totally helped my mental well-being in a positive way. The fire had spread to other isles now, and the dancing flaming floor had cut me off from my shopping trolley and the exit. I was trapped. Helpless. Useless. A two for one sale on bottles of cheap store-brand plonk smoldered and curled until nothing remained but charred ash parchment that blew away in the scorching hot air conditioned breeze. If I didn’t move now, I was… hah! I was toast! One time, in an age long past, I had sat in my school’s library, browsing a book of poetry. From Hemingway to Poe, I was enthralled. A particular poem had captured my attention, a wonderfully inspiring, self-determined poem written by a Victorian poet by the name of William Ernest Henley. The poem was called “Invictus”. That poem had enraptured me and jammed itself in my memory for eternity. Whenever I found the pressures of the world bearing down upon me, I would repeat it. I searched blindly through my memory to try and find those comforting words. They would give me the power, I knew, to leave. Which of course, is why my mind drew a complete blank. I quaked again and spat out another bolt of fire. I tried again, searching for something, anything I could use. What If-... ...that’d do. It was only a couple of stanzas, but it would do. I inhaled deeply as the storm of my stomach subsided for the moment. I pulled myself onto my taloned feet. Before me, the floor of fire expanded, now lapping gently a few inches away from my toes. I took another deep breath as I closed my eyes and remembered… “If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!” “ I shouted into the smoke cloud that had become the aisle. It was only a couple of lines, but it would do. It quieted my internal struggle long enough. The churning in my stomach gave way to steely resolve. I was filled with determination. I ran through the flaming puddle-lake of alcohol, chanting those same lines over and over and over again. I chanted them as I slammed into my shopping trolley. I chanted them as I rode it’s momentum to the exit. I chanted them as I shot through the pried open entrance, belching acrid smoke like the Black Gate of Mordor. I chanted them as it slowed to a halt in the parking lot, along with my heart rate. “Hold on… hold on… hold on…” I repeated to myself, my body going limp from exhaustion as I collapsed to the asphalt floor of the parking lot. Watching the smoke billow out of the front entrance. Out of the air conditioning vents on the roof. The siren song of the fire alarm was still just as piercing out here. The building, shrieking in pain for someone to save it. Nobody would come. I was still queasy, but I was out. Isn’t that what mattered? “....just… just fuck…” Then it struck me. The book I had recited it from listed If- as a form of victorian satire, poking fun of the ludicrous standards set by society. I laughed loudly, openly, hysterically. It wasn’t really all that funny, but the silliness of the situation just made me laugh constantly. A satire gave me the determination to survive. But hey, I was still alive! And despite a small coating of ash, my booster seat and bottles of ale were safe too. The building was in it’s own lot, disconnected from anywhere else, which meant the fire couldn’t spread out and burn the whole town down, so that was also a good reason not to panic and to look on the bright side. But staring at the smoke billowing up into the afternoon sky, I didn’t feel very cheery. ------------ “Hey love…” I mumbled haggardly into my headset. The Rolls was fully packed up and ready to go outside, but I was too tired from the trials of the day. It was close to 8pm, and I was absolutely knackered. Even if I wasn’t, there was no way I’d be able to drive at night in this body. It just wasn’t happening. “...you sound like you’ve had a hard day. Have you had a hard day?! I mean you probably have, considering, but- just- just tell me everything!” I regaled him of my epic tale, which was much rather akin to a legendary failure. He fussed, as I expected him to, but there wasn’t really much he could do except whine. Which he did. Liberally. “You could have been killed!” “Yes, but let’s focus on the part where I VOMIT FIRE when I’m anxious.” “But you’re anxious like, all the time!” “It only seems to really surface when I’m at my worst.” “So in other words… it only shows up when it can make the situation worse.” I sighed. “Sure seems that way. I need to stop worrying, but this entire situation is really beginning to damage my calm.” “Well, you picked up those drill bits, right? Try gnawing on them when you feel bad.” I’d almost forgotten the drill bits. They were indeed sitting in my satchel in the car. “...hah, you’re right. I’d totally forgotten I had them. They honestly didn’t taste too bad now, is that weird or what?” I started giggling as soon as I asked, I knew EXACTLY what he was going to say. “My darling, of course it is, you’re the wei- “ Suddenly, while he was mid-sentence, the loud noise of a phone hanging up pierced my ears. The steam client had hung up the call. My laughter caught in my throat. A cold feeling of dread washed over me. “No. No no no no no no not now!” I whined quietly. “C’mon…” I begged. “Please…?’ The client remained grey. A pop up indicated I was not connected to the Internet. My throat constricted. My old friend Grief welled up as I buried my head in my hands, my talons scratching furiously at my forehead, raking across the scales. Typical. I knew how to deal with Grief. Unfair. I had spent my whole life fighting it. What’s a tiny pathetic firestarter like you going to do now? Push it down. You’re on your own. Compress it. None of your wonderful “friends” are going to help you. Until that useless grief turns into fuel. Even if they wanted to. A venomous, toxic fuel. The world simply doesn’t want you to be happy. The adrenaline of the perpetually mediocre. So where does that leave you? High octane rage. “Goodbye darling.” I choked out as I shutdown my desktop for the last time. “I love you.” I climbed into bed and pulled my shredded sheets around me. The grief had already began to fester. I’d had a vintage stock left to mature for years. There was only one way to see him again. “gweld chi cyn bo hir.” I'll make it. I had to. That's all there was to say. I glared into the night until sleep dared take me. ------------------ I woke up at 6am. I tore the rags of my blanket off myself for the second time and made one last check of the house. Despite my fatigue the previous night, I’d gotten everything well in order. I didn’t miss a thing. “Mrowr” ...well, one thing, I suppose. Beth stared with interest on the roof of the car, catching the first of the morning sun. I stared back at her, my mind racing. Should I bring her? Could I bring her? What if I brought her and had to leave her behind? Would that be fair? Does she even like me now? Beth, for her part, yawned and started cleaning herself. At least one of us wasn’t suffering a moral quandary. “Hey Missy.” I spoke soothingly, approaching the car. Even my slightest motion put her on edge. She used to be an abused animal and would always freak out at sudden movements. I guess I really did bother her a lot. Trapping her in a car with me and lugging her halfway across the world was just plain cruel, and that was the best possible outcome if she came. No. Best to leave her here. “...bringing you along is going to be bad for the both of us.” I reached out a hand for her to sniff and, like a shot, she was off the roof and had vanished into the bushes. The only member of your family still alive and she hates you. The last thing I did before locking the house for the last time, I filled up her bowl and cracked open the kitchen window. Her dry food was on the table and the bag was open. She’d find it eventually. Starting the Rolls was a challenge. Most of the cars in the UK were gear-sticks, not automatics, and the Rolls was no exception. The crowbar I had procured made it a little easier to reach the stick, and the stilts I’d assembled worked for changing gears, but there was no way I could stop the car without stalling it and I certainly wasn’t comfortable at going at any speed over 30 miles an hour. Getting where I needed to go was going to take longer than expected, but progress was progress. The car lurched into life, and with a fair dint of effort, I had pulled it out into the street. On reflex, I thanked God for the lack of other drivers. I would have been absolutely screwed if I’d tried this a few days ago. But hey, a few days ago I wouldn’t have been a tiny lizard. The Rolls had a very good sound system, taking phones, USB sticks and CDs. I flicked my eye into the footwell and spied a few albums stowed away. There was only one I was really interested in listening in at the moment, and I knew for an almost certainty it would already be in the CD tray. I leaned over and flicked the play switch and was immensely gratified to know I was right. [youtube= https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a01QQZyl-_I] Freddie and Bowie. What a dream team. What a song. Then again, Queen was objectively the best band to ever grace the earth and Freddy Mercury was the patron saint of vocalists. Dad was the one that got me into Queen. They were practically all he played when he was at the wheel, or even when he was teaching me how to drive. There were some really great times, when it was just me and him… The plan was to turn onto the A483 towards Chester, and then onwards to Manchester and it’s Airport. Manchester Airport was the third largest airport in England behind Heathrow and Gatwick. If any airport in the UK had the very specific type of private jet I’d been training myself to haphazardly fly, it’d probably be on the list. If that failed, well… it was a 6 hour drive to London, at the very least. Plus another two for when I naturally got lost. But first, I promised myself I’d make a detour. Five minutes later, I was parked outside my Nan’s house. A small, terraced bungalow in a nice and quiet residential area in Gwersyllt, fairly close to where she had grown up her entire life. She had always found her old house too big and empty with her six children all grown up, so she sold it about ten years back to buy this place. It was nice and cozy enough. A little cramped, but it didn’t bother her one bit. It was less house to clean. I’d take her shopping every Thursday after work, without fail. After years and years of babysitting, I had to. I just enjoyed her company. She saw how her daughter treated her children, and blamed herself completely. The cripplingly alcoholic and abusive husband probably had more to do with my mother’s mental landscape than my Nan ever did. I looked through her curtains for any signs of life. Her mesh curtains were pulled tight, as always. She liked nosing through the window to spy on passers-by, which seemed to me to be the tradition of old people the world over. Another tradition seemed to be the large cluster of kitschy crap plastered over her windowsill and porch. Not garden gnomes or flamingos, but clay caterpillars, butterflies and hedgehogs. A black and white clay cat from St. Andrews, Scotland stared back at me glassy eyed. I’d bought it for her because she used to own a cat that looked just like it. The door was unlocked, as it always was. I quietly let myself in.