Chapter One

I was running, it seemed that I always was. Wind blowing across my ears so I couldnt hear anything besides my own heavy breathing, and my heart thudding inside my chest. This was the fun part, this was why i did it, for the thrill. - Dodging through people in black hooded sweatshirts and oversized white tees, sprinting down the sidewalks and ducking into almost completely black alleyways, men with guns slung around their pockets hanging around the edges.

I kept running, laughing as I did, my lungs burned and felt as though they were freezing, or about to explode. In the brisk New York spring weather, all of the people I passed in the midnight streets were slumped over, trying to keep warm, but too broke to buy a descent coat. They looked at me sometimes, - worried that maybe the cops were behind me and thats why I was running, and that maybe they would have to run along side me too, I'd seen that face too many times before. But they seldom ever did follow, though, and when they did, I always outrran them, or I at least lost them by taking unexpected turns around sideroads. This time though, no one followed me. I was laughing hysterically, half of it out of excitement, the other half fear. But the only thing guiding me now was the eery but warm orange glow of the streetlamps on every corner. Some that had been off from inactivity flicked back on as I tried to sneak past.

My sides started to ache and for awhile I thought I might throw-up. But I kept running, this feeling usually passed for me. I just try to think, lose myself in thought, and when I do this, its a way of staying sane. This whole thing had started when I was 5 years old, growing up in the suburbs in a dingy old grey house with chipped paint and a broken window, repaired by a lazy father with a black garbage bag and some duct tape. It wasnt the best part of town either, men were coming over quite often asking for my father, men in suits, and men in hoodies. Sometimes they would stay, when my parents were actually home, and I would be sent outside to play. Some of the time when I'd go out, there would be other kids out, and it wasnt so bad, playing tag and keep-away in the street. But other times, like this one, it was just before sunset, and everyone was inside, it had been an unbearably hot summer day, all the neighborhood kids had played all day, having water balloon fights and such, all of the mothers must've wanted them in to cool off and maybe go to sleep earlier, so that meant I was out alone. Back then, kids were allowed to wander off blocks away from their homes, and with my parents being what they were, I had no limits.

Sauntering on down the road, probably 3 blocks from my house now, I came across the vacant lot where the teenagers were known to hang around and be up to no good. With the sun setting, I sat down in the grass, which felt like hay because of the arid, dry summer we had been having. I ripped up a longer piece and twisted in between my fingers, looking down through the grass I saw a green lighter that had been dropped on the ground. Picking it up, messing around with it, running my thumb down the top of it like I had seen my parents do so often while lighting their unfiltered cigarettes, a spark came out. Shocked and fascinated I did it again, another spark, and doing it again, and again, finally a flame emerged, and scared, I dropped it, the flame went out. Sitting there with my heart racing I looked at the lighter where I dropped it. I picked it up again, making another flame, and another. Then, holding the flame up to the piece of grass in my other hand, it caught fire, panicing, I tried to blow it out, but the flame was eating away the grass, burning all of it and the black end twisted up. I dropped it when my fingers got too hot and a few more strands of the dehydrated praire grass light on fire in this open lot. Nervous, I looked around, no one was outside, no one could see me. The flame got bigger, and bigger, and I liked it. I picked up another piece of grass and lit it, dropped it, and the flames grew bigger, I loved it, it made me feel comfortable and I was hypnotized by it. Lighting another strand, dropping it, the flames got so big I had to step back. I threw the lighter in the fire, and it popped and again the fire grew. Stepping back another step, standing there, watching it all burn.

Some time must have passed because when I first heard the sirens, I came out of a trans, looked around, it was completely dark, and the fire has consumed the entire lot now, above the popping and sizzling, the sirens pierced my eardrums. I ran, barefoot down the side walk, as fast as I could, I ran, and I laughed. My face still hot and red from standing in front of the fire, I ran, my feet cold from the cold night against the cement, rocks digging into the soles of my feet, not losing speed. Rounding corners, making my way home, giggling, my little legs aching. As i ran, my mind immediatly went back to the fire, how warm and comforting it was, I wanted more.

The front porch light was on, but, not sure if I should go back inside, if those men were still there, I sat on the steps, for if my mother or father found me they would think I was there the whole time, just patiently waiting, they wouldnt know what I had really done. My heart was racing, but I was exhausted, my heart rate must've been so high for so long, and I was ready to fall asleep right there on the cold chipped concrete under me, the dim porch light above me attracted mosquitos and flies and I fell asleep to the sound of sirens and the bugs flying up and hitting the light.

The next thing I knew I was being flung at the couch by the back of my shirt, falling off the couch onto the floor I hit my head hard. I didnt know what was going on at first then I remembered falling alseep outside, and I remembered the fire... I was suddenly so scared I felt nauesous, but my father was walking away from where he had dumped me, so I must've not been the main priority at the moment, he walked right back outside. I stood up and followed him out, he shooed me away. I could hear sirens, more than last time. I shrunk back to the couch and stayed there. The house was completely quiet, I was home alone. I stayed awake this time and feared that if my family came back, somehow they would know that it was me, I started that fire. I feared that somehow they would know it was me, by the footprints in the sand, or by the black under my finger nails. I stayed awake for so long, wide eyed, possible scenarios running through my head, and when they finally came back through the door, in the middle of a conversation with my sister, agueing drunkenly, probably about the fire. The conversation mostly trailed off and my father stumbled over to the kitchen table, grabbed a cigarette from the ashtray and lit it. He was shaking his head staring at the table.

"Ayy Flynn, you see anything weird going on over there?"

"No."

"Huh, caught onto some other shithole house too, but they put it out in time. Just caught the roof. We saw it happen too."

Then there was quite a long pause where he continued to smoke his cigarette staring at the table while Mom was getting the coffee ready for the next morning and asking my older brother to start rolling her more cigarettes. I stayed quiet, sitting on the couch looking into the kitchen at them. After some time they all sorted out into their bedrooms, and my sister made her bed on the floor and soon fell asleep, but I was too anxious to sleep, and my dad too drunk to sleep just yet. He lit another cigarette and came over ansd sat on the coffee table turning on the tv.

"lets see if the fires on the news", he mumbed half to himself half to me as he flicked through the channels, and, sure enough it really was. On our local Chicago news channel, a clip of the fire that I had started was being played, with an asain woman interviewing a fire-fighter who was on the scene, he was saying that with this dry summer that we were having something as little as a cigarette being thrown could've started this, it could be accidental or it could be arsen, and they were going to investigate. My father laughed, "Investigate. Ha! Investigate what? In this shithole? Are they serious? Nothing but scumbags around here, nobody gives a rats a*s `bout no empty lot and some crackheads roof.", he continued rambling on drunkly. Then I caught him say something like, "If anybodys asks you anything about that. Dont say anything." I pretended not to hear him, not to make a fuss over anything, but I nodded.

My mind came back as I continued running, almost reaching my destination. Nights like this I would always stay under some bridge, so no one could trace me back to my apartment later on. I went behind a tree and changed my sweatshirt from the red one I had been wearing to a black one while stuffing the old one in my bag. Putting up my hood and trotting over to the bridge where I would spend the night, I could hear laughter and faint coughing, just over the sound of car tires thudding across the bridge.

As I came down swooping under the bridge I saw that I wasnt going to be alone for the night. There was a huddle of half naked girls, (three blondes and one with dyed bright red hair) all whispering and shaking, and I saw a lighter flick on and it illuminated a spoon, a needle, and one of the blonde girls faces. Off in the corner, I saw a couple sleeping with all different colored blankets, and 2 pairs of boots sticking out of the bottom. But I looked a little closer and saw that there was a kid also, looked like a boy, curled up next to the woman, and I thought, my childhood wasn't great in any means, but at least I had a roof, and not just some leaky bridge. I felt terrible, the night was cold, and under that damp, dark bridge, it felt even colder. I went into my backpack, took out the red hoodie, and quiety crept over to the family, laying out in the open, with nothing but blankets, and a sack full of their belongings that the mom was using as a pillow, and I layed the sweatshirt on top of the boy, who was shivering, even in his sleep. A group of drunk men who reeked of some sweet but sour kind of alcohol, and who must've seen this gesture, came over to me as I made my way over to a rock. Sitting down on it, they sat down next to me too, and asked me what my night has consisted of.

I lied, "Well, broke some guys jaw outside of Joe's. He was way too hammered, couldn't quit runnin his damn mouth. I even heard it crack. Anyway, none of you saw me, aiight?" and I went on and on to them about this man who I got in a fight with, they all seemed to be in awe. Maybe their whole lives were spent just sitting under this bridge looking around for cigarette butts tossed off the highway and passing around a bottle of jack. Maybe this was the most exciting story they heard in quite some time, and it seemed like they needed it, because they believed me as I went on, making it all up. They seemed truly impressed. They all had their mouths open and nodded. "Wow. You've had a night, you probably need a smoke.", the african-american man with long shaggy black hair-that was stringy and graying-said while taking a Marlboro out of his jacket pocket, handing it to me. I said yes, even though I dont smoke, I just needed something to get the smell of the kerosine off of my fingers. I stuck in it my mouth and the man lit it for me. Even though I did have a crazy night, I never told them what I really had done. They were too drunk to smell it on me anyway, all I could smell was their booze and stale tobacco. I continued to tell them this completely fabricated story of what I supposedly did with my night and why I had ended up under that dank bridge with them, and they continued to listen vehemently.

The man with brown hair pulled back into a pony tail and a graying beard pulled out a half bottle of vodka and we passed it around, it was about half full, and one of the men chuckled and told me-even though I wasnt fully listening-that every day they beg on the street, each one of them has a seperate street, and at the end of the day, they put it all together and buy a bottle, and gather under this bridge for the night. Soon, one of the junkie w****s came over and asked for swig, while laughing one of the men handed it to her and then more faces appeared in the darkness, and we all sat there drinking straight from the bottle, the only light coming from the coals of their cigarettes. After awhile I felt buzzed and remembered my stance, sitting underneath an overpass with complete strangers, listening to "Black Bill"-the man who had offered me the cigarette-ramble on drunkenly about his tradgety of a life. He had been part of the ENRON scam, lost all of his money to it.

"I started out in a rich family, as a kid, I had everything, I had potential, I made my living in the city as a stockbroker, then I got too lost in it, ya know, too big and rich, and when s**t hit the fan, and we went belly up, I was broke, done for, now I’m under here, with all you guys.", he said, while patting one of the other man’s head, and uncomfortably the man pushed him off and skooted over. He continued on-pausing sometimes in the middle so drunk that he was nodding out, and we had to shake him awake-he told us he how depressed he had been, but that it was all okay now, because he had his bottle everynight, and he laughed with a harsh scratchy cackle that turned into a bad fit of smokers cough everytime.