Chapter 1 Burning Billy
Smoke rises in the air. Flames lick their way into the sky like long slender ribbons. They twirl their way into the clouds. The sky darkens, like a thought. One bad thought and your whole perspective changes. You might think the flames are beautiful. Like the feathers of a phoenix flying or you might think they are scary, like a large gnarly hand reaching for you. You see what you fear. Not what you like. It’s a natural thing. I don’t fear the flames. They’re alluring in a prospective way. The future is coming. But, how soon? The wind drifts into a new temperature. It heats my face as the flames grow and brighten. I crouch in the grass and wipe my fingers on the ground. I smear them in the dirt, mud cakes my fingers, I dig my nails into the roots of the grass. They are blackened with soil and pieces of filth. I take a handful of dirt and slowly begin to shape it. It forms a mound, a fresh place for a plant to grow. I take a package of seeds and place them on top. My symbol of a new life. One life is now gone. Here is a new one. I don’t regret that life. A knife sits nearby. It’s rusty and tipped with blood. I take it and drip the blood onto the seeds. The package is now dotted with ruined spots of dark red. The sun will bleach the bag but the blood will still be noticeable. They will wonder whose blood it is.
Perhaps they will think it’s hers. The flames are so tall now they rise over the trees. The gasoline I poured on the ground and in the flower bed is flaring up marvelously. The sky turns black with smoke. As I watch, the grass disappears from beneath my feet and turns to light gray rocks and then pavement. The road winds to the left and I follow the yellow lines heading Southwest. The wind whips my hair around my face and the sun sets on this side of the world. The trees loom, casting melancholy shadows over the street as my shoes scrape the pavement. I watch a police cruiser skid to a stop in front of the house. A bulky man in a uniform steps out. He covers his mouth with a rag and turns to face what he believes is a burning house. Perhaps a stove caught on fire. He stands with his other hand on his tool belt.
He’s a man of power. Other cars speed into the driveway. Slinging gravel in the air and dust. The police officer coughs into his arm and puts his rag away. No use. He looks at the pile of soil and the seeds. As he comes closer, confusion spreads across his face. I wonder what he is thinking. He slips on a pair of gloves and touches the spots of blood on the paper. I hear a branch crack under my feet as I inch closer. His head snaps in my direction and for a minute I swear he sees me. But, he goes back to what he is doing. Someone brings over an evidence bag and he places the seeds inside as they take pictures. I back away from the tree line. The smoke is clearing and I don’t want to be seen. Leaves crunch beneath tennis shoes and I leave footprints behind me as I trudge through the mud. The house disappears as the woods close behind me. Concealing me from their eyes. I hear the sirens in the distance. They get quieter and quieter as the night drags on. As I move farther away. I climb into the blue sunburnt Silverado that is parked miles from the crime scene. There’s a picture of a woman inside with dark brown hair. I taped it to the inside of the console for safekeeping. Along with seven other photos. I reach into my pocket and reveal a photo of a woman with light brown shoulder-length hair. It lays gently across her nimble shoulders and the very tips hide into the top of her white frilly blouse. Her hair is wavy and it shines. She’s a pretty girl with dark brown eyes and thin lips. Her slender nose is elegant and it makes her high forehead look smoother and well placed. She is smiling at someone. I don’t know who took this picture but I wonder where she is.
Her arms are speckled with dots and a small cut is between her collarbones, just beneath the red jeweled necklace hanging from her slender neck. The same necklace that is in my back pocket. I take it out and examine it in the dying light. A cold chill travels up my spine when the cold metal touches the palm of my hand. It sparkles and I can see the intricate detail put into designing it. Making it personal to her. A name is engraved on the back. Hannah. It’s in swirly lettering and painted silver in the crevices. One of the links on the chain is bent. It’s fascinating and I sit in silence for a while tracing that dent in the chain. It’s somewhat comforting. To see something so beautiful has a flaw. It almost makes it more beautiful somehow. I eventually hung it from the mirror with the others. There’s a bracelet, another necklace with a green smooth cut emerald, and a ring hanging from a chain. The only thing on the mirror that isn’t jewelry is a lock of hair braided down into the floorboard. It is all different colors. Each one has a different story. Just like this girl Hannah had a story. Her necklace twists and turns in the window as I drive not sure where I’m going next.
I place the photo with the others. Taping it carefully beneath the pile of bills and letters. One of them is from my sister. She wants me to visit in the summer. I won’t go. I never do. The speed limit is 55 miles per hour as I get to the highway it changes to 60. I speed up and take the blue truck toward Montana. I hear it’s pretty there. Lots of farmland and trees. Good places to relax and live with a family. I don’t have a family. But, maybe I can make a little ranch, maybe. Who knows. I take the next exit south farther away from that burning house. All of those houses. I stop at a gas station to buy some cartons of gas. I pay for them at the register and the girl working there asks me why I have soot on my face. She has green hair. With purple streaks. And red tips. Her eyebrow piercing has a tiny star on the end. Maybe she wants to be a star. Her eyes are roaming. She twitches at every noise. I wonder what happened to her. Who hurt her. I ask her for a receipt and she rolls her eyes. Her fearless attitude returns. ‘What are you afraid of?’’ I ask her. She looks skeptical and she doesn’t answer. Her eyes darken. They are brown. Dark brown. And they look like Hannah’s eyes. She gives me my receipt and I leave the gas station. I can feel those eyes on me all the way to my truck and back onto the highway.