Embers: Little Black Fireflies

Little Black Fireflies

1.

     He hates them; their smell, their texture, and even the mild chalky residue they left behind. All around him little black fireflies fall to the ground, spreading their disease. It’s disgusting. Something should be done about it, he thinks, fiddling with the white shape in his hands. Nothing will be done about it, and he knows it. His neighborhood is just one block too far; far enough that the fire department isn’t paid enough to bother. Sure, the flames haven’t crept up beside his fragile wooden home yet, but they will soon; he knows they will, and it infuriates him.

     There’s nothing careful about a fire. It’s malicious, but clumsy, destroying everything in its path without a second thought for whom or what it takes with it. He slams his fist on the table, bringing up little black flecks as he does so. Outside his window, the air is thick with a gray haze, blocking the sunlight almost entirely. To him it looks like the end of days, judgement come for them all. It’s God’s sweet revenge; one last joke on the poor before it all comes crashing down.

     A dull throb beats through his hand like a second heartbeat. He cries out in anguish to no one in particular. His mother and father left days ago with the rest of them. Sheep following other sheep, he thinks, looking down at the white porcelain in his hands. He turns it over; giving the face that had once caused him so much terror a longing gaze. In the dim light of the holy fire, it is nothing more terrifying than a speck of dust.

     The basement around him is cluttered and filled with memories of what has become a bygone era. There is nothing left to quell the rage that is building within his fragile frame. His head and body fill with the incessant buzzing of a thousand imaginary bees, ready to escape at any moment. He would give anything to stop the crawling feeling beneath his skin. Images haunt him like ghosts, floating through the thick air, leaving behind whisper trails of past existences.

     He paces to the window and looks out on the ash-covered driveway. The station wagon is pulling away as if it were happening in real time. His mother is crying in the passenger seat while his father explains with a stone face, that staying means death. “We’ve got nothing else. This is it,” he says to the air. A tear nearly forms in his eye, but that only serves to further infuriate him.

     His mother’s tears; they brought him more pain than any knife could, and he had tried. The fresh sting of scabs on his arm reminds him how it had gone on the first attempt. It did not matter how much he wanted it; his body was not willing to go gently into that good night. I guess those scouts lessons finally paid off Ma. The clumsy stitching on his arm is evidence enough of that. It doesn’t look pretty, but it got the job done, and he is still standing.

     The basement air is musty and he hates it, but outside is worse. The air smells like a campfire, but with a sad undertone. There are no children roasting marshmallows, or teens telling ghost stories; there is only death. Teenagers telling ghost stories, the thought trails off, in a loose connection with the fire’s origin. The boy looked so sad, he thinks, gripping the mask in his hands even tighter.

     The idiot may have caused the loss of hundreds of homes and lives, but in the end, he spent the night safe in a penitentiary. Sure, it wasn’t the alleyway smoking, or whatever the kids did, but it was still safe. In the end that was the biggest joke. Those responsible would live on, and the victims would remain helpless.

     His knuckles are white, nearly crushing the mask in his hands. The room spins. He needs air. Upstairs provides no respite, but for a change of scenery. The bloody kitchen knives gawk at him from the opaque countertops. He really had intended to try to calm down, but something much more fascinating grips him; an idea so compelling that he can’t believe he’s never had it before.

     The bees stop momentarily, allowing for a second or two of calm. For the first time he actually notices how quiet the house has become. There’s the occasional creak from the weight of the ash settling, but nothing more. Everyone is gone. It’s just him. There’s no one left to see what he’s going to do. There’s no one left to bother with him. The white mask is cool against his sweaty forehead. He takes the kitchen knife and wanders off into the gloom. What a beautiful sunrise, he thinks, sticking the knife in his pocket.