Kindling
by Kevin Kalfayan
She sat across from me shivering, I was kneeling near a fire pit with a broken Bic lighter in my hand. There was no butane left, only the flint and wheel were intact. The lighter spat sparks into a nest of pocket lint and carefully selected leaves.
“This is why you shouldn’t be living alone. It’s not safe up here,” She said.
“I don’t care,” I said to the mangled nest of twigs.
“You dragged me up here, you wanted to talk. I hate coming up here, just to see you like this. We could be home right now,” She hugged her jacket tighter.
Her look of concern never left her when she visited. Her dark eyebrows always peaked in desperation. Her dark curls were agitated by the humidity and droplets of mist had accumulated in them. She was slender and always looked cold. Even with her hoodie, jacket, and scarf; she would shiver.
“So you didn’t want to stay?” I managed.
“No I,” she paused for a moment “How did you manage to call me anyways? I thought you came up here to fuck off. Just to fuck off from me and everyone else”-She stamped her foot.
I gave up and leaned back into a tattered collapsible chair. “How is she?”
Her pause was sufficient enough.
“It’s likely she is with her grandmother tonight,” She said with a stiff expression.
The air was heavy with condensation. There was a gentle rattle forming in my chest. Had my fever started the night before? Or was it today? The condensation found its way into everything, the RV, my chair, my jeans, my flannel.
“I don’t think I can go back. Why do we have these conversations? I thought you might bring her tonight,” I said, feeling forgetful.
“I don’t want to go over that again. Especially not out here,” she sighed.
My eyes searched her face in confusion. She knew I was much safer here, why would she even question it?
“No medication, no Doctors, no men, no static. Do you have any idea how hard it was to use a payphone? But I had to see you again. I thought you would bring her,” I offered.
I was standing now, my heart gushed with fear and adrenaline. My head started to ache and I glanced around my shelter. My fever was in it’s cold stages now, goosebumps crawled across my skin and made it hard. The formerly abandoned RV sat quietly, covered in mist, its windows blacked out with spray paint and rags. I glared at her, worried briefly that if I looked away she might choose to leave.
But time passed and I knelt back to my wooden castle, stuffing it again with kindling. Averting my eyes from her, I stared intently into its heart, wondering how I was going to get warm tonight. I scraped the inside of my pockets in frustration, searching for anything; a receipt, a bit of lint, an old matchbook. I was met with the stitching of my inner pocket.
“Do you have anything that will burn? Something to help me?” I asked her, almost fearful the question would cause an outburst.
“Take one of these,” Her hand outstretched with a used tissue.
I gingerly handled the object for only a moment, it had some of her. It was not warm, but it was her. It caused a familiar ache just below my navel.
We discussed some of my options in the cold. She told me I could start treatment again, she could get her husband back if I was willing to try. She kept her distance while I toiled with the kindling, rightfully so. She told me I smelled like a beast and to come back home where I belonged. I only focused on the fire, the task at hand.
She started pacing around myself and the pile of sticks I was tending to. I hated when she stood behind me. I hated seeing her in my line of vision too. Her footsteps paused behind me and I felt her breath on my neck.
“Just come back.” She sobbed into my ear.
She hovered over my shoulder for a moment, then shifted her position closer to the flimsy thing I had built. I molded a spot gingerly with my fingertips, a place for warmth to accumulate. There was a spark. I whispered quietly to the slowly growing ember, my breath urged her into existence. I blew faintly, nursing the small flame larger. Smoke caressed my beard, my face, my eyelids, her hands worked through my dirty hair. She kissed the scar above my right eye. She had made me a father once before, but it felt so long ago. Then she put her lips to my ear and whispered again, a white blaze filled the ring. Her warmth crept through my ribs, through my heart.
I felt hungover, sick, exhausted, dirty, and beaten. The sun never came, a thick fog and a smoldering fire pit were my only companions. I gently reached into my pocket hoping for something to burn. My fingertips brushed a dry bit of paper, I took it out with slow anticipation.
--We still think the world of you. The Dr. says your window to heal has already closed. But I never wanted to give up. Your daughter misses you. I miss you. Please come home.
The trees faded first.
Then the noise of cars hit my ears.
Then the air changed.
Then my feet began to swell and beg for respite.
Eventually I sensed catastrophe, I was permeated by it. Roaring engines, barking dogs, the smell of trash, the smell of piss, the unkind smoke in the air.
The door felt unfamiliar under the palms of my hands. I leaned in to look through the peephole of my old dwelling. But I couldn’t see much from the outside. I heard the sickening metallic click of someone unlocking the door. I jumped back, startled.
Her hair had a tinge of grey to it. The lines in her face were deeper than I had remembered. Dark half circles clung to her eyes.
“What do you want?” The woman said.
“It’s me.” I offered timidly.
Her eyes rested on my scar, she covered her mouth in shock “What are you doing here? Where did you go? What happened to you?” Her words were muffled.
“You told me to come back. Last night, don’t you remember? The letter, this letter you gave me?” I shoved the piece of weathered paper into her face.
“I didn’t… is this your handwriting? I’m calling the hospital, please just wait outside this time.” She slammed the door.
“Where is she? Wiat… is she older too?” I ventured.
“You know where she is!” I could hear my wife’s panic through the cheap door.
I backed away from the house, a headache was starting to form and the city started screaming at me again. I paced in front of her building as I felt the fever creep back into my head. I was aware only of the pain in my feet and ankles, so I sat on the concrete. My hands had gritty pools of water in them. No, they were tears and these were the hands of an old man.
The men would be here soon, in the corners of my vision. They had been following me since I made it back to city limits. The men were there, causing everything since the accident, maybe even before the accident. My fever felt worse and the city wouldn’t stop, I kept hearing sirens.
I spit bits of glass and blood out of my mouth. The car was missing most of its windshield: Is she ok? Gravity hit me and the world was upside down. I rolled out of the vehicle and looked down the street, my vision obscured by blood and smoke. A few yards up, was her; no longer a girl but a mass of bloodied cloth. I could make out some matted hair sticking out of the twisted clothing. I must have blacked out back then. I remember being afraid to touch it, to confirm anything had happened.
I moved my hand to my forehead. I felt a slick bit of metal jutting from my skull about an inch above my right eye. The only thing I could remember was the meat on the pavement, I didn't touch it. I don't think I did.
A week after my release from the hospital the men started to follow me. I might have been guilty of something.
This time I was old. I could feel them handcuffing me and pulling at my sweat soaked clothes. My wife stood in the window and watched. This time I would just let them take me.
Kevin Sirag Kalfayan is a hobbyist writer in his free time and a perpetual student of literature. He volunteered in the Armenian community for several years. A self proclaimed American Armenian- he draws influence from religion, the supernatural, fantasy, Central California, and the outdoors.