A Return To Warmth

A short, rather depressing, story.

The smell of desiccated pine fills me.

My eyes remain dry, but a pang of anger-imbued nostalgia blisters beneath my skin. I know you won't care--I'm not doing this for you.

This is for myself, for once.

The limpid gasoline fumes are barely visible in the moonlight, in the midnight shadows--to me, however, they are as solid as winter herself. I watch as the invisible lines waft unknowingly from their origin, the gallon jug in my hand, to the ceiling of my living-room. The evaporations evanesce, just as your words, your smiles, dissipated into nothingness. 

But I'm not doing this for you. I'm done doing things for you.

My Christmas tree, lights glowing serenely, glints before me, challenging me to once again participate in this festival of loneliness, of pathetic remembrance. I respond by lifting my container of gasoline; I refuse to spend another year reminiscing upon what you did to me.

The liquid spills onto the stiffened branches, the parched trunk. Ornaments glisten with intoxicating anticipation--the lights are blurred by the fuel, the despair. My hands shake--why aren't you here to hold them?

I'm done with you. I haven't cared for years.

The entire room is shrouded, twisted, by this mist of desperation. A Christmas carol echoes from the street.

I pull a lighter from my pocket.

The star atop the apex of the now gasoline-soaked Christmas decoration lists to the side, as if begging me to reconsider. Well, I did reconsider--but that was years ago.

A tear drips from my lip. God, I thought I was past crying.

Once the sobs begin, they only become more violent, more contrasting to the cheerful carols echoing along my street. 

Of course this is for you. I haven't done a single thing for myself for five damn years, because of you. I hope you at least recognize my name in the paper.

My hands are shaking violently.

"...and to all a good night."

The flame flickers into existence, bowing under the weight of my sobs.

Everything explodes.

Author's Note

My recent writings have been rather dark--my apologies.

Reviews

[Poeticadia]

I like the way this unfolds, with the narrators thoughts superimposed on the narrative, leading it forward then reining it in a little to expand on the past; suggesting the reasons for the situation in the story. Wonderfully well told and the ending is awesome.

[FJ Davis]

To call this "flash fiction" would not only be accurate, it would, I suppose, be making an obvious pun.
This is another well-conceived, well-told and exceedingly tragic story. It is a superior piece of work.

[Skoo.]

I've read this about five times over tryna think of exactly how to describe how intense and powerful your writing is...
I love this. I can't find any faults in it (I tried 'cause you said you wanted advice)
I love how it keeps switching from a description of the surroundings to the protagonist's thoughts and back again.
And how it gives you enough information to picture what's happening and sympathise with them but still leaves unanswered questions that make you want to read and decipher every word...

...In other words; Awesome write (:

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Never apologize for dark writing, we each search our own dept to find truth behind the darker recesses of human thinking, and you my dear sweet friend are a master at your own wording, like in this piece, a relative emotional journey in a few short paragraphs, well done.