Let It Burn

A dark story on our individual selves.

It started with a child. A vessel of innocence. A waiting stem, hungry for love. I watched this child grow with a smile that filled the universe. I watched as the boy’s parents smothered him with toys and figures, puzzles and books, eagerly paving the way towards his precious imagination. I watched the child fill his room with color and wonder. I watched as he built a mountain out of building blocks, climbing it and claiming his youth. And I watched this boy sleep as silently as the night. I watched as the boy’s parents, tip-toeing away from the child’s room, sway on the waves of their love, as the husband picked up his wife like a feather, and placed her upon their sanctuary. I watched as they danced between the sheets of their devotion, the sanctity of each other. I saw the husband gently cup his wife’s face, holding her like delicate porcelain, pressing up against her, marking her with passion. I felt the purring, trembling sigh of his wife, as she bit down on her lip in reassurance, swelling with happiness. I saw what should have been for always. 

I blinked but for a moment. I found myself watching the same family. I watched the husband scream at his wife, a foul smelling bottle in his sweaty hand, raising a fist that would soon become a hammer. I watched the wife put up a futile hand, as her husband smashed upon her porcelain skin. I saw as their son, playing with his toys, but now curious of the commotion, walk into the scene that would become the rest of his life. 

I watched as he said, “Mommy? Daddy? What’s going on?” And I watched as the boy’s father lunged at his son like a demon, his wailing and frantic wife behind him, demanding he stop. Horrified, I wept. Desperate, I blinked. 

I found myself in the child’s room. The boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, alone, his toys scattered about him, unanimated and neglected; his mountain now crumbled. Concerned, I knelt by him, and said “Please, play with your toys…this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” But the child didn’t say a word. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. 

Suddenly, I sprang up in confusion. The boy began to cry a crimson flame. His toys began to ignite as well. I rushed for the boy’s father, slacked and slouched on the kitchen table, still a slave to the bottle in his hands. I shook him and screamed, “Please! Your son is on fire! Do something!” He didn’t move. A glow caught my vision, and that’s when I noticed the bottle in his hands began to burn. I ran. I ran for the mother now.

“Miss!” I screamed, finding the mother face down on the bed in her room, “Miss! Your child is on fire! Miss, please! Get up!” But she wouldn’t. She remained in the bed, sinking, as it devoured her. The bed soon set aflame, and I ran back for the child, who was still crying blood- red flames. He thrashed about, and threw his toys, which were still alight, breaking them. 

Helpless, I turned away and closed my eyes, tears streaming my face, saying “Please, just look to the sky.” I left and I wandered. 

She was the next person I saw. A young woman, with eyes like cathedral windows. She was standing in front of a mirror of a crowded clothing store with a stone-hard face. Beside her laid a pile of clothes. I watched her carefully. 

One by one, I watched as she picked up each garment and held it up to her chest. She would stare at the mirror for a long while, entranced, but then would abruptly recoil, as if her reflection hissed at her or spewed a deadly venom. I watched as her expression sagged like wax, as if also damned by her appearance. I watched her mumble, “I’m hideous.” 

Her eyes, though. Those kaleidoscopes, made up for every foolish doubt that pierced through her; and she needed to know that. 

I approached her. I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “Your eyes are your greatest dress, my dear.” She didn’t believe me. She wouldn’t. She shoved me away and choked, “Leave me alone! You’re just as bad as that!” She pointed a sharp finger towards the mirror, and looked my way, branding me with her rage; it’s as if she thought I was the mirror. She then pointed her accusatory finger at the rest of the shoppers, as if all of them were a maze of mirrors; maybe they were, maybe it was true.

I ached for her. I opened my mouth to reassure her beauty, but the words never came.
My eyes trained on her reflection, just her reflection, and I saw her copy spark and burn that chilling red flame. She didn’t notice it---how could she not!?---and I warned her, “You’re on fire! Look to the sky, send your pain, and get help!” 

I left her and went outside. I wandered for a while, and came across a man on the sidewalk who was talking to himself---no, he was talking to the air…to nothing! He had this petrified look on his face---looking this way and that---as if running, expecting some shadowed horror. I watched as passersby gave him a condemning look, but not before I saw this troubled man’s head burn red. I ran. I didn’t know what to make of any of it---this fire. I ran past the man and said, “The sky! Look to it, salvation waits!” I gave a hopeful look back. The man looked up! But his eyes gaped with fear, and he looked back down, and continued his eternal escape. 

Everywhere I went, the fire followed. I saw a homeless man, dirty and broken, with hands outstretched---hands that were burning. I saw a teenage boy slide a razor to his scored skin---skin that was burning. 

I ran.
I saw that child. Those building blocks.
I ran. 
I saw that woman. That mirror. 
I ran. 
I blinked. 

A rooftop. I was atop a roof, at the edge with a man. He was middle-aged, looking down at the ground before him. He held a great sadness, crying a torrent of tears. 

“Don’t do this” I said, “Just look to the sky. Please. It’s not too late.” 
The man closed his eyes, and muttered “The sky?”
“Yes”, I returned. “The sky.” 
“Why?”
“Because it’s a canvas. It’s a way out.” I paused, and added, “Because there’s so much more…than this.”
The man considered, silent, but silence always deceives.
He jumped, a red blaze trailing him from behind. 
I watched him die, and then put my shaking hands to my face.

I uncovered my face. I looked down, and saw the earth. Every which way, the earth burned an eerie red. 
I looked closer.
The earth wasn’t burning; these people were. 

I stared down at the blooming luminosity, as if it were like a flower at fray with life and death…no eyes glistening my way tonight, no prayers tearing through the listening and accepting night…and that’s when I knew:
In a world that’s so content with pain, they just decide to let it burn.

2013 Vincent Cuccolo

            

Reviews

[Vincent Cuccolo]

Thank you, Alex! Your feedback is very much appreciated, and I'm glad you can find poetry even in my stories! :) Thank you, truly.

[Alex Ryder]

What a phenomenal story!! I love the message behind it, and you describe everything with remarkable eloquence. Yet another story that is also poetry...