Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Chapter 29)

 Chapter 29

The talk…

 Kimber was at his apartment early the next morning. She rang the bell several times, before Mike finally, sleepily opened the door. 

 “Where you asleep?” she asked, handing him the coffee that she brought with her. “Here I thought we could talk, and since your phone is never plugged in, I thought I would just come by.”

 “Yeah, ok.” Mike let her into his apartment. The apartment was pitch-black. He had taped the windows over with cardboard and drew the shades. He had only known darkness for so long, and it was where he was most comfortable. 

 “A bit depressing, even for you.” She joked.

 The stupid bitch, he thought. “Sorry, I’ll turn the light on. You know all the headaches and stuff, I just feel better in the dark.”

 She nodded her head. “Are you ok? You look different.”

 “Yeah, no, I don’t know. I went to the shrink again yesterday. I was having a bad time, but I think it’s over. “

 “It’s over, over?” she looked shocked. 

 “Well, I think I can control it now. The doctor gave me a few tips. I just feel better. What did you want to talk about?”

 She sat on the sofa and sipped from her coffee, Mike stood next to the front door. He took a drink of his. 

 “Ugh, no sugar?” he asked.

 “No, you always take it black.”

 “No, I need some sugar, hold on a sec.”

 She watched him walk to the kitchen and add four heaping spoonfuls of sugar into the cardboard cup. He paused in the kitchen and looked to the corner as if he was looking at someone or something. She watched him nervously. He fought the urge to yell out and tell the other to get back to darkness. He held the control.

 He sat next to Kimber and took a long drink from the cup. She watched him, suspecting that something was wrong but not knowing what.

 “I wanted to talk to you about us.”

 “Okay.”

 “The night I stormed out of the Cat, you really hurt me. I know I was playing hard to get but the moment that… I… I wanted you, you flirt with the bartender chick.” She wouldn’t make eye contact with him. She fiddled with her cup. 

 “Look, I thought you wanted to just be friends… that’s what you said. I was interested, I am interested.”

 “I am too, but I know how you are.”

 He tried to recall what the other had said. What was the word he had used? It came to him.

 “I think you are luminous, amazing. I’m sorry about the other girl. I am. It won’t happen again.” He lied. 

 “Maybe, we could take things slow. See how it goes?”

 “Yes, definitely.” He reached for her hand. The touch revolted him, but he held her hand in his just as the other would do. He hated that he had to play this game now. But he knew that if he wanted to cleanse them all, that he would have too. 

 She smiled at him. She relaxed, her nervous tension abated.  Mike sat on the sofa and watched her. He had no idea how to act now. Should he kiss her? Or what? He leaned in.

 “You’re not good at taking it slow, huh?” she said as she backed away.

 He shrugged his shoulders, not knowing a better response. 

 “I’m going to go, but we see us tonight at the Cat?”

 “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.” 

 The moment that she left, he turned the lights off again. He needed to think, to plan. This is just another step for him, he thought. Mike sat on the sofa with his sugary coffee in his hands. This will be even better than before. He thought before that Kimber was clean and he could spare her “the cleanse”, but now he knew that she was the same as the others: a worthless sinning cunt. That thinks only about her pleasure and flesh. She will eventually try to lead him into temptation, just like the others had. And when she does, then she will be cleansed in blood as well. 

***

 “What do you think he means “get crazy with the cheez whiz”?” Ollie asked about the song Loser from Beck. They blasted it from the speakers overhead.

 “It’s nonsense, that’s all.” Kimber replied.

 Everyone except Bill and Trish were at the Cat again, drinking the night away. It was two dollar shot night. They were getting hammered. Well, everyone except Mike. 

 “The song is shit.” Mike said. 

 “What? It’s a great song. That is the song of our generation.” Yves piped in. “Think about it we are Generation X, we are the losers.”

 “Fuck off, with that shit.” Mike interrupted. “I am no loser.”

 “I’m saying we are all losers our parents fucked up the system for us.”

 “Oh, great, here we go, another metaphysical philosophy discussion, when you guys are drunk. I don’t want to be a part of it.” Kimber said, turning away from the group.

 “What I was saying was, we are the slacker generation. Did you see Reality Bites? That is us.”

 “No way. I know what I am doing and where I want to go.” Mike replied.

 “I don’t.” said Ollie.

 “You’re a fucking idiot, that’s why.” Mike replied.

 “Don’t be an asshole. I get enough shit from Tom and Bill.” Ollie whined.

 The nonsensical esoteric discussion went on for over an hour. Kimber waited, bored at the bar, desperately trying to get Mike’s attention. He had ignored her most of the evening. A fog of grey smoke filled the bar. The music changed to some 80s. It was a welcome pace, she thought, hoping that the discussion would end and she might get to talk about something else.

 “Are you guys done?” she asked. 

 The guys stopped discussing the generational problems between the baby boomers and gen X.  Coming to a consensus that the problem created by their parents’ hysterical notion that capitalism is the only way to live and placing the blame for society on them. Mike disagreed though; he thought that everyone is to blame. He was almost angry at Yves and Ollie.

 “Dude, what happened with Sam?” Tom asked Mike. 

 Kimber blushed red. This wasn’t her night; she didn’t want to think about Mike with another woman. She wanted to move on from it.

 “I don’t know, maybe I was too much for her.” Mike joked, but seeing Kimber’s reaction, he immediately regretted it.

 “Seriously, can we talk about something intelligent? Not about Mike humping some slut.” 

 “Are you jealous?” Tom kidded. 

 “No, it’s just…” she stammered. She hadn’t thought about telling anyone yet that they were “taking it slow”.

 Mike jumped in. “Look, I don’t know why she isn’t her. Maybe she disappeared like Callie.”

 That is strange, Kimber thought. 

 “I’m starving.” Tom said. “I need to eat.” 

 He paid his tab and then left. That isn’t unusual for him. He often takes off by himself, no one paid him any mind. The night dragged on. Mike wasn’t drinking. He was the only one sober from the group. Kimber the drunkest. Ollie tried to flirt with her. Mike ignored the situation. Eventually Kimber left, alone. Mike and Ollie were sitting at the bar alone. 

 “Dude, why does everyone give me so much shit?” Ollie asked in a slurred voice.

 “I don’t know, you just attract it.” 

 “I’m just so tired of it…” His head slumped onto the bar. Mike helped him down from the barstool without a word. He paid the tab and walked Ollie out of the bar. 

 “Where are we going?” He asked.

 “The restaurant, I need to do something.” Mike responded, propping Ollie up with his arm.

 The back alley of the bar connected to Verdura. It was the same alley that he took Callie from. The alley smelt like piss and garbage. Cigarette butts littered the ground like stubbed out soldiers lost in a battle, while scribbles of graffiti graced the walls. A broken street lamp flickered, adding to the eeriness of the night. They stumbled and strolled through the alley. Ollie stopped just short of the spot that Mike had bashed Callie’s forehead into the wall. He bent double and puked onto the ground. The alcohol made its second appearance. Mike watched impatiently. He wanted to start. He wanted Ollie to be his first cleanse in the light. 

 It would be the first time that he was in complete control of Mike. He had beaten the pussy down into the darkest corner of their mind. Over the years he spent in the dark, he had learned that he could not kill the others that dwelled there. The old man he had tortured and hurt bad, but he could not kill him. There were others there as well, but all weak. Scared pieces of shit. They swore they would protect the pussy against him, but they all failed. 

 The old man had been Mike’s conscience and guide. He aged faster than any of the others. One other that actually had made it to the light was Mike’s childhood. The pussy was unaware of it all. He knew that Mike believed that he was in constant control, but the truth is everyone has a fractured personality. We are never truly in control, something perhaps someone takes over sometimes. 

 They are the voices that tell us right from wrong; they are the ones that tell us how to feel, how to be. Some might think that it would deny us the sense of identity thanks to our multiplicity within. But Ralph Ellison’s narrator put it to perfect sentiment in Invisible Man: “Now I know… that all life is divided and that only in division is there true health.” Being many things is better than being just one, he thought. We all have many facets, many sides, we just don’t know it. He relished because he could take control. He of rage and fear. He of anger and hate. He the embodiment of all things evil that Mike had ever thought.

 Ollie sat in the chair over the drain. His head hung low over his naked legs, drool dripped from his mouth. Mike looked on without anger, without disdain. This was pleasure in its purest form. With the woman, he felt rage and hate, the lust that ran through his body, that controlled his thoughts caused him to lash out. To forget the cleanse. But he had cleansed them. And now he would bring Ollie to the light. He would cleanse him without the rage. He wanted him to see that he could be loved through pain. That he would be free from his sins and that he would see the light and, in the light, there is truth. 

 Mike had taken a blade to Ollie’s back and cut small slivers of skin away. His back was pock marked and bleeding. He washed the blood away with water. The thin liquid mixed to a pink fluid and dripped into the drain. Mike took handfuls of salt and rubbed it into the open wounds. Ollie cried out in pain, arching his back, fighting against his restraints. He begged Mike to stop. He cried and sobbed. The pain was too much. 

 “You must come to the light, Ollie. You must repent from your sins.” Mike told him.

 “I do, I do… please… please,” he pleaded.

 “When you have truly repented, the pain will stop by its self. Until then, I must lead you to the light.”

 The restaurant cellar gleamed in the bright lights, the stainless steel shone, polished by Ollie himself. His blood collected on the floor over the drain. He drooled and puked over himself. His legs coated in a film of green bile. 

 The torch hissed. Its blue flame reflected off the silver table top. Mike held the torch next to Ollie’s cheek. He winced and whimpered. 

 “Please, Mike…” he begged. 

 “I know Ollie, I was scared as well, but I love you, you are my friend. I will bring you to the light, the flame will cleanse you. The way is rough, but I am here to guide you.” He set the flame to his skin, Ollie screaming and pain and the skin crackling and reddening. He fought against the rope that bound him to the chair, the hemp cord ripping his skin open. The skin on his disappeared and creating a black hole that smoked.

 Mike bent to Ollie’s other cheek and kissed it lightly. “You are almost there.” He whispered. 

 The cellar filled with the smell of burnt flesh; the sage burnt in the corner to drive the sins and evils away from them. His cheek now opened and black, his back was red and white with blood and salt that had crusted. Ollie’s head hung low, his breathing was shallow. Mike nudged the young man, that had once not too long ago laughed alongside him. The dawn was nearing Mike knew that he would have to finish soon. He went to the oven and built his fire. 

 Ollie was unconscious, which made it easier to prep him. He undid his bindings and hung him from the ceiling like he had done the others. His body bruised and blackened. His flaccid penis hung between his legs. It was larger than what the others in the kitchen had thought, perhaps larger than all of them. Mike took his knife and poked at Ollie, trying to wake him from his imposed slumber. 

 He woke, he begged. He sobbed. His bowels released themselves. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mike, please… I’ll never tell… I won’t.”

 Mike looked at him, not seeing him, he saw the sin; he saw the darkness. “Shh…”

 “Please, I’m sorry I told Bill about Trish.” He begged.

 “Don’t say her fucking name.” he angrily stabbed at Ollie, plunging the knife into his stomach up to the hilt. 

 Ollie gagged and convulsed, blood poured out his mouth and the newly opened wound. 

 “Fuck… Fuck… Ollie… You motherfucker!” he screamed.

 He sliced at Ollie over and over, tracing his knife down his torso. Ollie was long dead by the time that Mike stopped. His clothes, face and hands covered in blood. Ollie’s penis looked much like the rest of his body, cut and bloodied. Skin hung from the dead body likes strips of peeling wallpaper. There was blood everywhere.

 Mike sobbed on the floor. He had wanted to bring Ollie to the light, but his rage had taken over. His anger had taken control and had destroyed the beautiful gift that he was giving him. 

 He stripped off his clothes and threw them into the fire. He watched them burn through the small opening of the oven. His eyes glassy with tears and heat. He hated himself. He hated Mike. He hated her. He hated his father. He hated his mother. His hatred knew no end. He would cleanse them all. No matter how.

***

 Bill was sleeping. His snores filled the room. Trish hadn’t been able to sleep. Her room filled with shadows. Every creak and sound the old house made, made her jump. Everything scared her. Bill had said that they had to sleep there. He had forced her. He wanted everything to be normal; he wanted to put it behind them. How could he understand the terror that she had? She was alone with her fear, alone with her thoughts in the old house that held nothing more but terror for her. 

  The phone pierced the silence. Trish’s breath escaped her. Her heart filling with dread. Her shaking hand reached for the phone. It was as if she wasn’t in control. Trish knew that she shouldn’t answer it. But she couldn’t help it. She put the phone to her ear without saying a word. Sobs, nothing but sobbing into the phone. She could hear the cries of someone, of something. Her body shook uncontrollably, Bill still lay unmoving next to her. She begged in a silent voice for him to wake up.

 The sobs stopped and a ragged breathing shot through the line. “I hate you.” The voice whispered. Tears streamed down Trish’s cheeks. She froze with fear, unable to put the phone down. “I hate you… I’m going to kill you.” Then the breathing again. Bill woke, Trish had wet herself, the wetness creeping to Bill’s side. He sat up in a start, staring at her. 

 “Trish, hang up. Hang up the phone. Trish.” Grabbing the phone from her. He slammed it down and checked the caller ID. “What the fuck?” 

 Trish cried hysterically. Tears and snot, an ugly cry of fear and terror, of an uncontrollable terror that she had never known before.

 The caller ID read: Verdura Cucina Rustica, (413) 329-8712.

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