The Flame

The Flame 

The screen on the Android screams a repetitive silent ring. A gas can rests in the passenger seat, as the smell of petrol holds a nefarious comfort. The driver side sun visor blares a low bearing light that captures a male, 30’s gruff and stressed – twirling a box of matches. His eyes blankly stare as dried streams of tears reflect numb emotions. Erratic vibrations drop the cell phone violently to the floorboard. He does not move.  

In his lap, rests a set of keys. The numbers 209 are etched onto a key fob. Talk radio preaches words that promise salvation. Speeches that are interpreted to guide lost souls to find comfort. This created comfort is supposed to help guide the lost into finding hope. An uncontrollable chortle emits as he knows tonight holds no comfort! No salvation! No hope! 

Headlights turn into a gated entrance as his perception becomes more intrigued. Cautiously rigid movements contort, as the male’s perception traces the low beams entering through the gate and parking in an all too familiar vacant spot. Anticipation pauses ignorance as lights dim off - the driver’s side door sways open. Lurking eyes unnaturally glower, as a pair of yellow stilettos reach out of the midnight black Chevy Blazor SRT, touching pavement. Moonlight glow captivates a stunning blonde as she stands with her cell phone stuck to her ear. 

Vibrations from the floorboard intend to distract planned or unplanned carnage. Sweat drenches an already sordid t-shirt. Hands tremble as the matches rattle from inside the tightly clutched box. Pandering into the visor mirror, the male hears an internal plea. Reflection burrows deep as he witnesses a broken man. He peers back to the female, still on the phone as she reaches into the void of the SUV. The male gazes towards the numbers on the key fob, as his grip loosens the box of matches.  

Spasmodic movements fumble loose matchsticks to the floor mat as desperate gestures squirm and reach for his smartphone. Maneuvering through debris, he grips the metal and scans the caller identification titled, “Beautiful.” With excitement, his thumb presses to answer her phone call.  

“Hey beauti...” before the words could form, a male passenger is seen jaunting past the hood of the Blazor, working his way to the driver’s side. Muffled verbiage is gurgled as the female’s voice is speaking seamlessly. “I have been calling you for the last three hours!!! Drake, can you please talk to me!!!” the female begging for a response. Silence creeps as his insanity ramps. Anxiety is now demanding answers for her intentions. Drake scowls diabolically as the passenger navigates around the door and grabs the female from behind. 

She does not fray as Drake strangleholds the cell phone, titters taper softly. “Drake, you answered the phone, so I know you are there...” her tone sarcastic as he is choked. Tears flow automatically as the female spins to face and tease the man with a kiss. Drake watches as her lips touch his, hands clasping erotically as her voice echoes through the phone, “Call me later, I am about to leave to meet up with the girls... I love you, Drake!” Paralyzed, the cell phone slips from his hand and crashes into the center console – splintering the screen into a spiderweb of fractures. Her blissful, high-pitched giggles fill the silent sedan, just before the call drops.  

Drake riveted through the windshield as his wife playfully shuts the door, her back pressing against the warm metal. The stranger closes the distance as her hands caress her breasts and trace past her waistline – pinching and gently lifting the bottom of her sundresses seam. Lustfully, her hand reaches and grips him closer as their bodies thrust against the SUV. Her hand wraps around the back of the stranger’s neck as Drake watches his wife guide the males’ impatient hand past her hip - her panties slip off and fall to the concrete. The stranger grips her by the throat as she slowly drops to her knees – her lips swallowing his finger as she seizes her purposely dropped underwear.  

She squirms out of his possessive grip, seductively tugging his deceiving hand towards the stairwell. Their two bodies race up the stairs, pausing on the landing for another hungry erotic tease. Their intimacy is interrupted by Miss Adritch from room 217, as she opens her door, both duck and hide. Once her door shuts, jointly the two dash past and stop at room 209. Pausing as she fumbles inside her purse, looking for her keys.  

Conflicted, Drake watches as she pulls out her cell phone and begins texting. Within seconds, his shattered cell phone hums a notification from the sender, “Beautiful,” asking if he can let her inside the apartment – pleading that she forgot her key. Livid, Drake heaves the Android, not caring where it lands. Leaning and resting against the exterior walls, the male mutters words and gestures frustrations as he playfully reveals her keys dangling in his fingers. Sensually, she grabs the set from his hand as she unlocks and opens the off-white door of room 209.  

As the two enter, the door closes. A void of silence in the sedan is interrupted as the shattered cell phone vibrates violently against the gasoline canister. The visor mirror blares a frozen reflection as an internal voice speaks an external whisper. “Set her on fire!!!” Drake flinches as words are captured but not fully comprehended. “Set him on fire!!!” Eyes hear sinister thoughts as Drake’s hands latch onto the steering wheel with white-knuckled ferocity. A primal scream erupts as hands forcefully pull and yank back and forth. His fists clinch as he pounds the steering column and the dashboard, ferociously. “Set them both on fire!!!” The words trigger internal madness as Drake peers into the visor mirror.  

A blistered silhouette speaks external attention as Drake sees his distorted reflection and smashes the visor shut. Deep breaths cause erratic heartbeats as he rolls the driver’s side window down. His eyes close as he inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Attempting to calm insanity, Drake internally imagines himself cradling a rainbowed bouquet of lilies – kneeling and facing a gravestone labeled, “In Loving Memory of Mary Herington.” Drake kneels and rests the lilies on his mother’s gravestone as internal memory remembers a downpour.  

With eyes shut, he reaches out and touches her tombstone – begging for her nurture. Wishing that she was sitting in the passenger seat, discussing and preaching about religion and spirituality. His eyes open with a more calming demeanor – anxiety ramped but mellowing. The drivers side mirror forces Drake’s attention as his burned, distorted reflection resurfaces with a diabolical glare.  

“What has she done for you?” The reflection in the mirror asks in a demoniac tone. Vibrations from the phone again cling against the canister – alerting another text message. Drake’s loneliness becomes vulnerable as the charred reflection repeats the question, “What has she done for you?” Anger overwhelms tears as his hands tear through his balding hair – insanity still lurking. As his head contorts, Drake’s pupils lock onto the loose matches that are scattered on the floor mat. Reaching and finger tipping a few sticks – pinching only one as others tumble. Holding the single matchstick only a few inches from his face, entranced with the sulfur as his mother’s internal tombstone lilies, incinerate.  

Drake snatches his key fob as he glances and looks at the apartment 209 window, lights on. He glances at the clock on the radio that is still faintly preaching about serenity – 12:46 a.m. Leaning over to the passenger seat he clutches the fractured phone and raises the screen to notice the missed notifications – one being from sender Beautiful, the other being a blue alert sent from law enforcement. Drake notices his wife's missed message and dismisses the blue alert is also a missed message from her. He does not bother to open them.  

Gripping and placing matches deep inside of his pocket, Drake begins to think fiendishly as he decides to leave the car keys in the ignition, thinking of a quick getaway. Squeezing the gas canister handle, he lifts and rests the petrol in his lap. His hand grasps the interior door latch as he inspects his surroundings before opening. Adrenaline boosts as he swings the door open, grabs the gas canister, and silently shuts the entryway. As Drake scuttles towards the staircase, breaking news interrupts talk radio and warns of a serial killer, loose in the area. 

Ascending the stairs, Drake creeps past nosy Miss Adritch’s apartment and halts just before reaching room 209. Quietly reaching into his basketball shorts pocket, the key fob yanked out as fumbled matches plummet to the ground. Perception peaks through the front entrance window – rain glass blocks vision as he carefully rests the canister of gasoline on the landing. Noticing the loose matches, Drake kneels and begins to softly sweep and scuff the sticks onto the ground floor. Ducking and leaning his back against the exterior wall, his ear hovers the entryway as a deafening thud is heard from inside.    

Drake pulls his feet away from the window panel and as his back suffocates the wall - his auditory perception concentrates as soft rock is stifled from inside. Dropping to his bottom, Drake’s back slides down as he stares at the numbers 209, etched into the key fob. Glaring forward peering over the landing, he can see his sedan – a slow hum as passionate thuds from inside are now repetitive bangs. Faint soft rock blares louder as Cheap Trick sings about an internal burning flame. Drake chortles as he glances at the gas canister.  

The moonlight cascades with a peaceful silence as the wind blows a gentle breeze. Swaying in the gust, vibrant colored lilies attract Drakes’ attention – bright gold, soft pink, deep red. Sexual thumping turns into pounding as moans grow more intense. Drake reaches and uncaps the lid of the gas canister – the smell of petrol is always tempting. With the key fob cupped, he presses the button to release the physical metal crafted key. He rests the key on the landing, grabs and tips the petrol and saturates the metal.  

Gripping the key fob and shaking the key, splashes of gas splatter to fugazi as Drake presses his palms against the foundation and lifts himself carefully – now facing the rain glass. Ignoring the wild moans, erotic panting, and heavy pounding, he presses the gas-soaked key stealthily against the glass and begins to carve words. Just before Drake finishes etching his last word, the pounding and screaming silences. A blurry figure struts through the living room, approaching the threshold. 

The curtain flutters open as the cheating male peaks through the smallest tassel of fabric. Noticing the etching carved onto the window, the male jerks the front door open. Nothing but the overwhelming aroma of gasoline and an open key fob resting in front of the carved window. Cautiously investigating, the cheater wants to make certain nobody will bother as he steps out of the threshold – hands and clothes drenched in crimson as he grips the gas can and turns to read the etching, “BURN IN HELL BITCH!!!”  

The speedometer of the Chevy Blazor SRT reads 75 as Drake speeds out of the Foxboro apartment complex. No traffic insight as his fingers press and surf through radio stations stopping as the words, “Here I go again on my own,” by Whitesnake are finishing its chorus. Rolling the driver’s side window down, he sticks his hand outside to feel the force shred through his spread fingers. “Breaking News,” interrupts the last few chorus lines of Whitesnake as red and white emergency lights spiral ahead. “A serial killer is on the loose and was last seen in the Foxboro Apartment complex. This just in, a fire...” Drake stares as an endless amount of fire trucks race past – sirens and emergency lighting amok.