Palmdale, Los Angeles, California

BEN BRIAR

I again find myself floating in my bathtub, listening to my music. I cannot feel the water anymore, or the bubbles, but I see only the fragrant candle on the rim of the bathtub.

The lights have been turned off intentionally. The candlelight relaxes the mind. It glows and flickers, but I feel no draft in the bathroom for it to move with such erraticness. A tiny pin of fire on the end of a rope secured in hard wax.

The table leg in the secluded house is the side of my bathtub. The candlelight is so warm and inviting to stare into. I concentrate on the fire.

It is energy that jumpstarts life and fuels it. It is white, lost around the edges by the darkness, tinting it orange if the eyes weren't lying. I must reinforce the lie and therefore, I reinforce the fire.

It will take me back to life. I am its only friend. There is no one else who believes the lies the flame spouts. It only wishes to protect and shield others from the truth, in the midst of a mist. The truth will hurt, so the blaze tells fibs for the pain of knowing is not worth the price of admission.

I have returned to my world, and I must understand for what reason. It is what the fire commands me to do.

I will work in coordination with the light, in this exclusive club.

The fire, like the water, also has knowledge that spans to the edge of time gone by. YOU ARE THE COMPELLER, the fire chants. A HUMAN THAT WILL SCORCH THE EARTH, LOOKING FOR PURPOSE.

I opened my eyes wide, my arm limb flipping outwards at the old woman standing over me. My fingers flicked away from my palm, and I found myself making a familiar gesture. It was the gesture of compelling.

The candles that had been lit around the house suddenly blew out. There was a moment of darkness and confusion which I could sense on behalf of the old woman. Rapidly, the old woman combust into flames, small pinpricks of fire from the candles flew through the air like plasma particles, striking the woman and igniting her clothing and her skin.

The light from the fire reflected off windows, the refrigerator in the kitchen, the table in front of me, revealing the dust on these surfaces and which filled the air, swirling towards the human flambe. She shrieked in intense pain which slowly simmered to a low croaky, desperate groan.

Her face melted off but in a scene of smog and ash. The collection of fires across her body had been shot from their neat wax. She stumbled towards me, the burning too much to handle. She held the shotgun firmly until her black, crispy hands broke off her wrists, the white bone underneath feeding the fire.

The exterior of the shotgun had also sunken in by the constant heat, the rounds inside baked into the liquid metal which poured out of the overturned firearm.

I closed my hand, dispersing the blaze back to the candles, lighting the room once again. She fell backwards with half a charred body, crackling with red moist fissures in her skin.

I finally caught my breath and felt the front of my shirt. Drachma coins fell out of my shirt pocket through a bullet hole when I sat up. I picked up a coin with a dent in it. Squashed bullets rolled off my shirt. The coins had saved my heart. I unbuttoned my ripped shirt, but could already feel the points of pain where the shrapnel had landed.

Luckily, there wasn't a copious amount of blood leaking out. I crawled over to the woman, gasping for something else other than the air of smoke or the taste of her ashes.

Or maybe it was because her lungs were damaged and she was just gasping for oxygen.

I asked, "Who put you up to this?" Her eyes remained glued to the ceiling.

"I... don't know," she said disingenuously. I wrapped my hand around her cracked throat which felt like flour and sand and rubbed off as dark soot. As if she was an oil miner.

"Who?!"

"The boyfriend who... [cough]... lived... next door."

"In your story. So you did kill Jennifer's mother? So you aren't a witch, painting yourself as the hero?" A tear fell from her runny demon eyes, unblinking for the lids were unmoving and might shatter into black hellfire, all over her runny demon pupils and retina.

"After I killed... [cough]... her... the boyfriend... covered it up... my... involvement... I was smote... I had... a debt to... him... so he... told me to... kill... anyone who... went into his... old house."

"So he's just as guilty as you." She didn't say anything. Only shallow breaths that squeaked and creaked. Like gravel, the size of walnuts, running down her vocal cords. Her hair was gone, bar the few rough crooked strands on her pink scalp, patches of pink brain piped out and squirming along where the hair used to part.

"Where is he?"

"He... lives in... Philadelphia... he's a businessman... these... [cough]... days."

"Address."

"336 Signal... Hill Road... he just bought... the... [cough]... house."

"I'll make sure not to burn it down." I got to my feet and walked to the door, buttoning my shirt back up. I wiped my hand of soot on the side of my jeans. Now it was a grey splayed palm, where the ridges belched black.

"Please... [cough]... call an... ambulance."

"What's the boyfriend's name?"

"Yaegar Wood."

"What doesn't he want me to find in this house?"

"Money under the... floorboards."

"Which room?"

"Jennifer's old... [cough]... room."

I wandered down the old hallway, remembering the multiple times I had been invited to the Valasquez household for dinner and crept down these hallways to the toilet. I had never been in Jennifer's room, it was private property.

It had been the most colourful room from outside, but the wall paint was now peeling from rot and its colour was drab with cracks in the wall. The mattress from the bed was missing, as were most things, taken by ransackers in the night.

I kneeled down and tested each floorboard until one came loose. Under it was a fairly new duffle bag, not dust ridden like every other object in this house. I unzipped it and fat stacks showed their teeth. I did not show mine, my mouth remained as shut as possible.

I walked back to the burnt woman on the floor and dropped the duffel bag next to her head. I took a stack of 100 dollar notes for myself.

"I'll need these for essentials on the car trip to Philly. I can't believe this Yaegar Wood still stashes his physical assets in this house. When the police and ambulance come, I want you to tell them everything about Yaegar Wood and what you did to his former girlfriend. They'll take this money away, and good riddance, unless you can get up right now and spend it, which I doubt you will. If you don't tell the truth to the police and I see that you wake up in a hospital and not a mental hospital or worse, prison, I'll hunt you down and burn the rest of your body. Now, did you leave the front door to your house unlocked or locked?"

"Locked."

"Pass us your keys then."

"I think they've... melted... in my... pocket."

"Guess I'll have to break in."

"Try the [cough] backdoor."

"What number do I have to call if I want to contact the police?"

"911." She coughed hoarsely, on the verge of finality.

The backdoor was unlocked. I found my way to the phone and dialled 911, a strange number to call in a crisis. There was no immediate connection made with the three digits.