Son of a Killer ch1

I hated the bus. I sat at the back, where no one would bother me, pouring over a textbook as the wheels rumbled over rubble, the radio man’s voice whining about the rate of violence spiraling up and up and up, as if graph curves could spiral.

“You Son-of-a-killer!” shouted a boy at the front of the bus. Everyone looked up. Those were fighting words. Those were murdering words. The boy receiving the taunt had no choice but to lunge at the taunter, reaching for his neck. Some of the kids rushed forward to get a better view. I stayed where I was, reading my textbook, ducking my head closer as if the font was smaller.

The fight was broken up by an older boy, but the damage was done. The thought was in everyone’s head. Son of a Killer, the worst insult known to man. And who should be on that very bus, but a true son of a killer, peering into a stupid textbook.

“Hey, Spit,” someone jeered, “how’s your dad? Killed anyone lately?” I pretended the print had gotten smaller. Ducked lower.

“Hey, Spit,” another called, “bring a body to show and tell?” Print smaller. Head lower. Flip page.

Before they could descend on me like wild wolves, the bus mercifully pulled to a stop. It wasn’t mine, but I didn’t care; I threw my backpack over my shoulder and bolted to the front and out the squeaky door.

I pulled out the map I’d brought for just this situation. Even so, I was late home.

“Where were you, Hospital Room Mathison?” Rummage yelled, slapping the wooden spoon on the counter.

“Had to walk from Jay Street,” I answered. Rummage looked me over, then relaxed, his shoulders slumping forward. He seemed to gain twenty years in those two seconds.

“Sorry, Spit. It’s just- I worry about you, you know?”

“I know.” I cursed myself for taking so long, for not holding out on the bus until he’d reached his stop.

“Pour some milk. The mac and cheese’s almost done.”

While eating, Rummage poked and prodded for more information about my day, which I was always reluctant to share.

“Heard much about the bill?” I asked, desperately trying to change the subject. Rummage started and I winced, angry for choosing such a horrible subject.

“There’s another research paper out from some school-full of rich geniuses. It said people like us were much more likely to become violent. The news guy said it had swayed several votes, but it’s still going to be close.” I sighed and dropped my fork. Stupid me. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? The bill was a dark cloud and a warm wind, threatening to tornado and tear us apart at any moment. Politicians, over-eager to show that they were making progress to more safety, had jumped on the idea that they could preempt the violence by taking out the murderer’s progeny, who would assuredly- according to science and genes and the like- be monsters and killers themselves.

And maybe we would; is it my place to question science? For all I knew, I could be a time bomb ready to go at any moment, killing all within reach. But my brother, with those anxious, gentle eyes and long, fine fingers, my brother, who scooped spiders onto index cards and carried them outside- he had as much murder within him as a bunny. And my sister, an exact copy of my mother, so trusting she thought the only possibility was that our dad had been framed, who couldn’t open a pickle jar by herself; she couldn’t hurt someone if she wanted to.

Rummage looked at his watch.

“Shoot. I’m going to be late! See you, kid. Don’t let strangers in.” Rummage ruffled my hair and raced out the door, scooping up his apron on the way out.

I rinsed my tray in the sink, grabbed my hoodie, and headed out the back door. Rummage’s late shift didn’t get over until one, so I was alone for the rest of the evening. It had been a stressful day; my hand was a bit shaky. I needed to relax, needed away to forget. I’d only ever figured out one way to do that.

The backyard was no good; Rummage might notice. The perfect place was the parking lot behind the closed grocery store across the street. I rushed across the street, eyes growing wide in expectation, breathing coming faster.

I pulled the gasoline, scraps of paper, and trashcan from their normal hiding place in a rusty, mossy dumpster. Mixed the ingredients together, impatient. Lit a match, holding it between two fingers.

For a moment I just stared at the tiny flame eating away at the match. It moved closer to my skin and I let it slip. Pulled my hand back. Closed my eyes and counted to two.

It had caught. I breathed out with the same relief as a heroin addict.

Cross-legged I sat on the ground.

The flame danced before my eyes, as glorious as ever, so bright it was hard to look at. The paper curled and blackened. Simple destruction. Release of tension. Relief. My hands steadied, my heart calmed a bit, longing to set something bigger aflame; to watch the fire dance as tall as rooftops. I could contain it for now in these puny trashcan-fires, but I didn’t know how long it would last.

Pyromania is a strange thing.