There’s blood splattered all over the back window, and I know deep down inside what’s happened. You see, over the years there’s been many threats from both sides, promising to shoot the other if the property lines were ever breached again. It never happened though; the threats were empty. At least I always thought they were.
The man glances to me next, his gun pointing to the ground. He sends me an irritated glare and stomps across his porch, slamming his front door as he passes through it and goes safely back inside.
He expects me to come get the truck from his front yard. The problem with that is I know my father’s dead inside. He’d be yelling at the neighbor, shouting words full of revenge if he were still here with us.
I hate him, but he’s all I’ve got. He’s all I’ve had since I was six years old. Nine years of living this life—adapting and surviving—rolling with the punches dealt my way.
The rest of my father’s family has been no help to me—ever. They’re just like my father only a bunch of drunken cowards, worrying only about themselves. My dad’s always been a survivor like me, until now.
The crushing feeling in my chest grows heavier. It begins spreading throughout and weighing down my body as I realize I have no one or nothing anymore. All because of this neighbor and his almighty shotgun. They’ve claimed their vengeance. Only now, I’m the one who’s paying.
My eyes linger a moment too long on the scuffed lighter resting on my dad’s pack of Marlboro Reds. He teased me so many times for coughing whenever I’d try to show off to him and smoke. The bright red gas can topped full with fuel sits at my feet. The italicized lettering spellingflammablecultivates an entirely new idea. It’s one full of clarity; I know what I need to do to right this wrong.
On autopilot, my fingers pick up the faded zippo, palming it in my left hand and then lifting the gas can with my right. My frame moves on its own accord, practically possessed as it carries me toward the neighbor’s house. It should take me longer to get there, but my quick strides carry me at a swift, determined pace. In no time at all, I’m at the run-down wooden structure, known as Percy Dickson’s home.
I wonder if he was man enough to build it with his own two hands as well.
My feet continue to lead me over the trail circling around the residence. The fuel spills from the open gas can as I go, eventually stopping at the front door. I remain stoic, staring at the piece of oak that will lead me to my father’s killer—to my retribution.
Flipping open the top of the lighter, my thumb switches over the metal, igniting a flame full of revenge. Percy may have kept his promise, but I’ll be damned if he gets away unscathed.
My grip releases, dropping the cool metal to the ground beside me. Flickers of fiery yellows and blues dance next to my feet once the flame makes contact with the igniter. The fire spreads on its own mission, following the path of gas I left surrounding the entire residence.
Minutes pass with me standing and staring—entranced at the door—and waiting. My legs and face grow warm as smoke envelops the air around me, the house catching the brunt of the flame as it climbs toward the source that can feed its scorching desire to burn. As it all burns away, piece by piece, it sets me free.
Loud thumps grow near as Percy stumbles in his heavy construction boots, coughing behind the very door, I’m standing in front of. Like a moth seeking the brightest light, the doors handle jiggles, and then it stops. After a beat, with a loud cry from the man trapped, the metal begins to turn. He’s seeking his freedom, but I’m not granting it; not today, not ever.
I blink, coming out of my daze and grab the handle, holding it in place. The metal scalds my palm, but I won’t release it no matter how bad it burns. The man pounds on the other side of the door, screaming for help as I stand still, the fire flickering full of life beside me. Everything smolders around me, but for some reason, the heat doesn’t harm me. It melts the skin on my palm—a reminder, no doubt—but I embrace it.
The old man struggles to breathe with the smoke and begins to burn alive. For the first time in a long time, I smile. The harsh stench of burning flesh brings me peace.
Once he’s dead, I dump the remaining gasoline over the blue memory holding my father and light it up next. Everything burns away, and, in that moment, I vow to never look back. It's nothing but a fuckingnightmare, after all.
You had me at a point where I
would’ve left the entire world behind for you.
- iglovequotes.net
I can’t go home alone again; I need someone to numb the empty feeling of loneliness I get night after night. I hate letting myself get down like this as if I don’t have anyone and it’s the end of the world.
My mind slips back to the one-night stand I had three years ago, nearly to the day. It is the reason I’m feeling this way after all…
Nightmare.
He called me his daydream, whatever the hell that meant. It was probably the sweetest compliment I’d ever gotten from a man. It was a compliment, right?
It had to be.
God, he’d freaking worshiped my body that night too. He didn’t care that I was high on percs. He’d growled and then laughed, and it was like seeing light for the first time in my life. That man made me feel, and for once, I wasn’t trying to block out the pain. I wanted to see him, to remember him.
That story didn’t have a happy ending for me like I’d foolishly let myself believe it would. I guess in a sense, it did, though; it brought me Maverick. However, it didn’t turn out like I would’ve thought when I’d first laid eyes on Nightmare.
He was everything I wanted—the forbidden fruit—or so I thought. Boy, was I wrong, and I took one hell of a big bite.
The first thing I noticed about Nightmare that day we pulled into the shitty beatdown hotel parking lot wasn’t the long, dark, wavy hair shadowing part of his face. Not even the black tattoos painting his skin or the thick, corded muscles overtaking his massive body.
It was the jagged silver strip running through one of the deep brown depths of his eyes. It started at the far corner of his eyebrow and sliced straight over his eyelid, nearly touching his nose. It was tiny but must’ve been a significant enough wound to change the color of one of his irises.