Monday, June 30, 2008

Things Lost in the Fire

I shouldn’t dwell on what was and can never be again.

I should look past it. I know this all too well but still not well enough it seems.

I drive by daily even though it’s at least twenty minutes out of my way. I don’t mind, I never did.

It’s a secluded place, a quiet neighborhood. Far beyond where people go willingly or without valid reason. I pull up on the driveway or what’s left of it. They put up signs saying “danger”, “keep out” and “beware”. Beware of what? Beware of the past that lies shattered and interred under the remains of a former home? It’s not as hard to see what it used to be as seeing what it is now.

Up on the patio I always need to catch my breath. I sit where my chair used to be and lean back against the wall. Under my feet the crackling of the pieces of a lamp holder. The one with the purple monkeys. The one I bought just to piss you off. You kept moving it outside and I kept moving it back in. I never did admit…I hated it as much as you did.

I gather my courage and go inside. I’ve been here so many times before, but some days are particularly hard. This is one of them.

Crime tape near the stairs, warning people not to go up. Hinting of the dangers that lurk there. As always, I ignore the signs and find my way to the first floor. To our room where the bed frame still stands. I accidentally step on the broken glass from the mirror. The one we had only just bought. Because you had broken our old one ages ago, hitting it with your fist after hearing your father had died. It was the first time I saw you cry. I sat down beside you, between all the tiny pieces and held you for hours. You looked up at me and then glanced around the room, finally resting your eyes on the fragments of glass. You wiped the love out of your eyes and said softly: “I’m sorry if I scared you.” and put your arm around me. I smiled and looked at the glass laying at our feet, “Scared me? That’s 7 years of bad luck right there, you did more than just scare me.” You laughed so I just started laughing along.

I smile at the memory of us. Young, inexperienced, irresponsible and somewhat ignorant.

Burnt pictures on burnt shelves alongside the books we never read. Drawers full of ashes and things I don’t want to recognize or can’t. The piano looks old and sad and I can’t get it to play the tunes you used to play.

I kept the tape from our answering machine. I found it three months later in the glove compartment of our car. You wanted to throw it out but I said I’d tape some jazz songs over it. I never did. Luckily.

Through our bedroom window I see our car parked right outside and for a brief moment I think I’ll hear you come in any second now. You’d stay out for hours when you were angry. You’d slam the door shut and wouldn’t tell me where you were going. I’d be worried sick the entire night and hope you’d get home in one piece. I’d lay in bed staring at the ceiling waiting for the sound of a car engine. I knew your every move. It took me a while. Our first fight was about nothing but it was something to you. When you finally came up and sat on the bedside I turned my back to you and said; “Fuck, Luke, it’s like we’re married already.”, you ignored me and took off your shoes and coat. I secretly watched you.

“How ‘bout telling me where you’re going next time?”

You crawled in bed beside me and whispered in my ear: “Well, where’s the fun in that?” Now it was my turn to ignore you. But you always found a way to evoke reaction. “Wanna have make-up sex?”

I poked you in the stomach with my elbow, perhaps just a little too hard. “You’re an ass!”.

As I close our bedroom door, I imagine it the way it was and quickly look back in. Just to make sure.

I walk through the hall, aware of the creaking zones and weak spots, and stop at the half empty room. The crib in the center seems lost and out of place. The still slightly visible paintings hint of a child’s room. It wasn’t finished yet. I was still working on it and you were going to put up shelves for toys and books and stuffed animals. And he was going to grow up with a father, in a safe and stable home without signs up front saying “danger” or “beware”.

He’s older now, almost two. He’s got my nose and smile, but in everything he does I can still see you. I told him of when he was born and how I saw his father cry for the second time, tears of love and joy and pride, so much pride. I taught him to say ‘dad’ even though he’s got no one to say it to.

I hate having next to nothing to remember you by. All our memories and youth, and you, gone with everything else we lost in the fire. The worst part isn’t missing you. It’s forgetting that you’re gone. And that he doesn’t even know. I listen to your voice every so often, saying you’re not here now and I should leave a message. And I do, I always do.

7 comments:

P.B. said...

First, awesome title for this.

My editor instinct is to tell you to cut a few of the beginning sentences:

I shouldn’t dwell on what was and can never be again.
I should look past it. I know this all too well but still not well enough it seems.
I drive by daily even though it’s at least twenty minutes out of my way. I don’t mind, I never did.

Honestly, I don't think they add to the story at all. Personally, I think putting your reader into the middle of your narrative is usually the best option. So "It's a secluded place, a quiet neighborhood..." Puts your reader there in the story where as the other puts the reader in your head. Does that make sense?

This next bit is nice. Clever. I like clever. :) I wanted to fool with it a tiny bit though:

They put up signs reading “danger”, “keep out” and “beware”. Beware what? Beware the past that lies shattered and interred under what was a home? It’s not as hard to see what it used to be as seeing what it is now.

I think it needs a paragraph break after what it is now. For one thing that's a neat little observation and should carry some weight but also the next sentence wants to start a new thought, a new paragraph.

I love the catalog of things you see in the wreckage, what the character associates with those things and how they tell the story in a sense. Nicely done!

Maybe it's my age but "freakin'" doesn't seem appropriate because the rest of her tone is so different:

I smile at the memory of us. Young, inexperienced, irresponsible and freakin’ ignorant.

It's inexperienced more usually than unexperienced. European speakers may differ with me on this though. I am an American speaker of English so necessarily wrong at times. LOL

This is very poetic somehow so naturally I like it:

Burnt pictures on burnt shelves and books that were never read. Drawers full of ashes and things I don’t want to recognize or can’t. The piano looks old and sad and I can’t get it to play the tunes you used to play.

I think the first sentence should read:

Burnt pictures on burnt shelves alongside the books that were never read.

I hate to say it but I'm going to have to come back for the ending. My eyes are going. Thanks for posting and stay tuned! I will finish!

Josephine said...

Thanks for your comment! It means a lot!

Thanks for all of the suggestions, I applied some of them. Still not sure whether to adjust the beginning though, it's supposed to coincide with the ending a bit. Let me know what you think of it when you've read the last part.

I adjusted your suggestion a bit about the 'Beware' scene. I usually don't like to pose questions. I often feel it breaks the flow of things and the feeling you're trying to create. But I gave it a shot, just slightly different.

You're right about 'freakin', it's a bit out of place there. So I changed that :p
Also changed "unexperienced" and the part about the books.

Thanks for reading it and giving such great advice! It's very much appreciated.

P.B. said...

The changes look good to me although I do stick by my advice about those opening sentences. I had actually read the whole story before I started commenting so I knew where it was going. I didn't finish my remarks because my eyesight has been so dodgy lately and I'm trying to take it a little easy on my eyes. :)

I added a space where there was none between some of the paragraphs. I hope that's all right but it makes it a bit easier to read for me at least.

I was thinking about the "beware" scene as you called it. What about this:

Beware of what? Beware of what lies shattered and interred under the remains of a former home?

This rewriting tones down the foreshadowing a bit and I think it needs that. It needs a little bit of uncertainty, I think.

About this bit:

I walk through the hall, aware of the creaking zones and weak spots, and stop at the half empty room. The crib in the center seems lost and out of place. The still slightly visible paintings hint of a children’s room. It wasn’t finished yet. I was still working on it and you were going to put up shelves for toys and books and stuffed animals. And he was going to grow up with a father, in a safe and stable home without signs up front saying “danger” or “beware”.

Don't ask me why but children's room is just awkward. At least here in the states, it's more common to say "a child's room" even if we mean the room of more than one child. Could be a regional thing. Don't know honestly.

I think that the crib speaks loudly enough about the purpose of the room so that the paintings are pushing it a bit. Maybe give this a try:

The crib in the center of the room seems surreally out of place. It wasn’t finished yet. I was still working on it and you were going to put up shelves for toys and books and stuffed animals.

Now the tie in part. This would be why I advised you to drop those opening sentences. :)

And he was going to grow up with a father, in a safe and stable home without signs up front saying “danger” or “beware”.

I knew when I first read those opening sentences that this was where you were heading, the pay off so to speak. That plus the name of the story of course. It's a story about regrets. That much the reader knows from the title. The shoulds at the start underline the regret a little to heavy handedly I think and so take away from your ending.

And it's a very fine ending too:

The worst part isn’t missing you. It’s forgetting that you’re gone. And that he doesn’t even know. I listen to your voice every so often, saying you’re not here now and I should leave a message. And I do, I always do.

Overall, very well done. Thanks for this!

Josephine said...

Thanks for the suggestions!
I applied some, but I'm not convinced on the paintings and the opening lines yet.
I find the opening lines line up nice with the end;
"I don’t mind, I never did."
vs.
"And I do, I always do."

P.B. said...

I said how much I like this title but I think I forgot to say that I think you should write a poem with this title. There's something wonderful poetic about it. :D

Josephine said...

Good idea! Thanks P.B.! I'll give that a shot :)

Taidgh Lynch said...

Overall well done! Though it is a little vague as to whether or not a murder was carried out. Perhaps she killed him. Maybe you want it to be a little cryptic.

I enjoyed the read. Thanks ;)