House of Embers

(The following story contains depictions of ocd-related self harm and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.)

Mother’s fingers are scarred with matchstick burns. It is hard to remember a time they were once unscathed, but I know it existed. Like every evening, as the day draws to its inevitable end, she stands in front of the fireplace, strikes a match against the stone and the flame ignites. It is small and timid at first, like a newborn fawn staggering behind its mother, afraid it will be left behind. Soon it learns it must consume in order to survive. With newfound courage, it races down the splint with fever, eager to be set free. Mother watches as it edges closer to her fingertips, all too familiar with the sting that is to come, and yet she has no intention of killing it. It is no use trying to stop her, I have learnt to let her be. It is easier this way.

Only when the fire finally catches her flesh, violent and hungry, does she release it onto the kindling below. With her unscarred hand, she grabs an iron poker and prods at the fire to keep it aglow. Next, she will douse her fresh wounds in burn cream so they do not turn septic; she is reasonable this way, knows there are consequences to her actions she must account for. Finally, as twilight settles upon the horizon and the winds begin their gentle humming against the bones of this house, she will retire to the powder blue chair which sits by the window. Patches of the fabric remain sun-bleached and worn, accompanied by the occasional stitch of unmatched thread, but she does not care. It moulds to her like the warm embrace of a lover, promising to never let go. It is there she will read the same book she reads every night, whose pages are so worn from being turned the words have started to disintegrate.

I do this to keep you safe, Isadora, she told me once. But what is safe if not sane? Sanity is a stranger to us here. It does not belong. Out here we are all alone, far, far away from any town or neighbourhood and, in some strange way, I find comfort in our loneliness. Perhaps it is because it is all I have ever known. When I was little, I named our home “The House of Embers." I took the blade of a shattered stone I had found and carved the words into the oak of our front door, so people would know where to find us if they should ever visit. By the time I was finished, the stone had carved its way into my palm as if seeking its own revenge, and my blood had found its way into the letters. The excitement of visitors had dulled the pain, transported it to a far away place so I was free to fantasise about all the things I would show to all of our guests. The lake by the valley where the water runs emerald in the glint of the afternoon sun. The rotten remains of a fisherman’s boat, where the seagulls perch on the hull to rest their wings. I would show them Jupiter’s grave and replace the wilted flowers with fresh daisies we’d pick from the meadow. If the weather had held that day, I would take them for a tour around my museum of chalk paintings and afterwards we would discuss their greatness over freshly baked scones, clotted cream and fresh jam we had made from the strawberries which grow in the garden, and tea I would pour into our fine china. 

I soon learnt all my effort had been futile. Nobody ever came, and the rain soon washed away the chalk and any hope still remaining within me. When I pass by that sign now, it is only the faint, dried maroon that reminds me of my naivety and the sweetness that coincides with it. I feel empty now, like the emptiness you feel as a small child not yet conscious of the world. Mother’s voice is all I know.

Make sure you knock on wood, Isadora. Knock until your knuckles bleed and the wood splinters. Always throw salt over your left shoulder, make the kitchen a salt mine if you have to. Don’t ask why, just do it. Count yourself lucky if you spot two magpies but one and you must salute. Promise me you will not forget. Cross your fingers when you lie, but don’t you dare ever lie to me. He is always watching. Wash your hands until they crack. Don’t speak God’s name in vain. Be careful with the mirror, you fool! Seven years of our lives are at stake. Don’t you see? I do this to keep you safe, Isadora.

Safe is sane, sane is safe.

Sometimes, when I am alone in the garden, my bare feet upon the cold, stone flags, I purposefully seek out the cracks if only to tempt fate. Then a fear like no other creeps into my body and I know what it is I must do to make it go away. I am beginning to see myself in her. I hold my breath until I reach the trees to ensure her safety. Light bulbs flicker incessantly when I am near. Door knobs are becoming loose from all my needless tugging. Insanity is safe, safe is insanity. I am growing tired of all my counting and with each number I repeat, I know it to be true. There is no hiding any more. I am beginning to see myself in her. It has become harder to shake away the bad thoughts these days. They contaminate me like wilt consumes a summer meadow to make way for the autumn. Soon they will be all I am.

It is that time again, when the match must be struck. I have been waiting for her all day. When she takes her place before the fireplace, she does not see me standing in the corner of the room. I am but a mere shadow. She grabs the matchstick from the mantel and holds it between her fingertips, places the head against the stone and prepares to strike, but something halts her. Her nostrils begin to flare, her jaw slackens, assaulted by the thick scent of something fierce. I step out of the darkness and into the wisps of a falling sun filtering through the windowpane, where she can finally see what it is she has made. Fright washes over her at the sight of me. Any colour once staining her cheeks drains, her face quickly becomes ashen as she begins to understand.

Kerosene drenches my clothes, drips from my body and lands in a pool at my feet. She does not move as I make my way towards her, frozen in place, in time. I grab hold of one of the matches and place the head against the stone.

Soon we’ll be nothing but ashes, mama, I say, and there is absolution in that.

Her lips begin to quiver, words fighting their way up her throat, only to die on the tip of her tongue. I see it in her eyes, what it is she wishes to say. She pleads with herself to stop this, to let go of what feels right and accept the disquiet. But there is no such thing as reason here. She strikes the match against the stone and the flame ignites. I mirror her actions. The flame races down the splint like a fawn on the cusp of freedom, consuming what it must in order to survive.

We are two birds of the same feather, I think to myself as the darkness begins its descent, soaring above the house of embers in circles we are too afraid to ever leave. For the first time in years, as the fire licks at my flesh, I smile.