Authors: Lee Pletzers
Matt ‘Deacon Blues’ Bluzinksi became a pillar of fire, one that was determined to take his nemesis with him. His blazing arms grabbed Brandy in a crushing bear hug and overbore her backwards to the floor. She screamed with fury and betrayal, then her body burst apart and erupted. The alcohol-soaked room exploded, its furiously expanding gases shoving Rick backwards onto the sidewalk. His own clothing ignited and he rolled frantically over the damp concrete, his bellows of pain drowned out by the roars of devoured oxygen. The flames were snuffed out in moments, sparing him all but minor burns. By the time he had risen to his feet once more, the inferno in the room had spent itself as well.
Sirens in the distance came closer; the New Orleans firefighters were on top of their game today. The room had gone dark. Rick reached for the door handle; it was warm, but not scorching. He slid on a thin polyester work glove and pulled it open. Smoke rushed out, carrying horrid smells with it. He coughed, took a look behind him, and saw Phoebe and Kyle stare at him apprehensively, still shell-shocked. The others that he and Kyle had saved lingered at the sidewalk, dry-heaving, trying to regain their senses and courage. “Wait here…try to keep the entrance clear for the firefighters,” he said. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back inside.
The room was charred, but not wholly devoured by the flames. Its posters had been reduced to ash, but the furniture remained. There were two bodies in the room; the older man who’d died when his lungs had flooded with the tainted air. He still sat in his chair with his hair burned off, his skin and clothing scorched. Then there was his sponsor, Deacon Blues.
Matthew Bluzinski was face-down on the floor, in an odd, push-up-off-the-knuckles stance. Rick recognized this as the ‘boxer’s posture’ that most burned corpses assumed…extreme heat shrank the tendons of the arms, forcing them into a pugilistic pose. His clothes were burned badly, and his Rosary had melted on the floor. But otherwise…there wasn’t a mark on him.
His skin and hair were wholly untouched by the blaze. Yet Rick had seen him burst into flames right before his eyes.
How in the hell is it possible…
he thought, then remembered the Incorruptibles, a popular legend in forensic medicine. Saints whose bodies simply did not decay after death. It was no more impossible than, say, alcohol itself taking a human form.
Of Brandy there was no sign. No body, not even a singed fur coat. Nothing at all.
A fury of grief surged through Rick: while all the bastards and criminals of the world continued to jump bail, defy justice and live happily ever after—inflicting anguish and horror on humanity all the while—another good man had died for nothing.
Not for nothing
, a soft voice spoke in his mind, calming him slightly.
He died saving you and the others. He helped you earlier, and probably a lot more people than you. He said he wanted to stop some people from ending up like Sarah, and he did. He said he just wanted something or someone to finish him off. Maybe all his prayers were answered at the same time, even the wrong ones.
There was a creaking sound behind him as the first of the firefighters entered the room. Rick grabbed Matt’s body around the waist, about to turn him over.
“
Hey! Don’t touch that body!” The firefighter snapped. “We’ve got to wait for the—”
“
Coroner?” Rick snapped back, taking one arm off Deacon Blues to hold up his ID.
“
Oh…how the hell’d you get here so fast?” he said, coming closer.
My name is Rick, and I’m an alcoholic,
he thought. “I was here when it happened. This guy saved me from the fire…saved all of us.” He put his badge away and turned Matt over with a grunt.
The eyes of Deacon Blues looked towards heaven, and somehow he looked a great deal younger. There was something on his face Rick had never seen before.
A smile.
The firefighter stared down in amazement. “What in the hell could make him
smile
like that?” he whispered in quiet wonder.
Rick felt Matt’s smile transfer to his own face, like a parting gift.
“
Serenity.”
It would probably be better for the society at large if our various vices only impacted US, and not affect our friends and families. As we all know, that usually isn’t the case. As seen on HBO’s “Intervention” series, a huge number of addicts would self-destruct if it weren’t for their friends and families.
But perversely, often our friends or families can be hard-partying “Enablers” that can either ‘jump-start’ our addictions, and/or cheerfully match us shot-for-shot down the left-hand path. Harry Mora now poses the question: which of you will reach the end of the road first?
THE TURNING
By Harry Louis Mora
“
I WON’T WAIT FOREVER!” he screamed after her, though he was sure the sound of the engine as Jessica drove away drowned out the pathetic threat. “I will not wait forever,” he whispered again—to himself—as the first pangs of pain began their convulsive trek from his heart to his brain. He slammed the door shut as the tears reached his eyes. Better to lock himself away then let the world know he had been torn apart—for the hundredth time—after having promised himself to never let that part of him need again.
The winter had brought self-loathing, betrayal and ultimately, guilty love. The spring had been magical, a storybook romance. The summer brought squabble, a breach in the idyllic life he had led for one blissful season. It was the first hint of an underlying sickness in their relationship. It was the first hint that it would all end in tears, as it had time and time before.
However,
this
time he would not wait forever for her to return. He had promised himself that; just as he had promised not to let himself be dragged along, clinging to the shreds of his heart when it started to go wrong. He would end his own suffering long before the world offered to end it for him this time—and he did. So why did this unbearable pain cleave his heart and close its fist around his throat?
He cried, long, drawn-out peals of sorrow and an endless river of snot and tears. He cried until he seemed to be incapable of producing any more liquids. He cried until the sounds of his anguish would no longer come. Only then, when his ragged breath only came in stuttering gasps did he stop.
He looked at himself in the mirror—tears, snot and heartbreak plastered his face. He let the water run—
I won’t…
—
he washed up—
WAIT…
—
and looked at his reflection again as he smiled.
Forever!
Watching himself smile—a smile of victory, not of warmth or compassion—he felt something was different now. He’d
turned,
somehow, either toward something, or
into
something.
Wearing this mask of happy contentment, he returned to his friends. He returned to the life of hard work and harder play. “Memento” memories; that was what he and his friends had termed those drunken nights when you lost minutes, sometimes hours of your life with no memory, regret or shame.
After a while, the mask he wore for the world changed him. He grew as dark, cold, smooth and slick as the front he displayed for everyone. He smiled his mischievous grin into the mirror and patted himself on the back. How many girls had that smile bedded? How many had that look sent away crawling into the same little hell he had become master of?
He took a broken, lonely soul and remade it in crimson and black, leather and tattoos. He created a villain to resurrect the naive white knight that had fallen. He knew many women; but never fell in love with any. He would not allow himself to be hurt again. He would not allow himself to be loved again. Without realizing it, he had become something he never would have imagined.
The Flight Up Bar that night was dark, hot and alive with drunken laughter and voices. The usual assortment of jocks, sorority girls, old men and tattooed freaks wandered drunkenly around the bar, jumping from conversation to conversation.
Jason popped a few more painkillers as he downed his eighth Long Island Tea. Mike the bartender knew Jason well; he always had a strong L.I.T. waiting around 9 PM and from that point on Jason never had an empty glass in front of him. Mark, Nate, and Leo arrived an hour after Jason. Nate was already well on his way to a drunken coma before he even stepped up to the bar.
Jason wondered what drunken hilarity Nate would cause tonight. As he shook hands with everyone, he got his answer. Nate took his hand and pulled his ear in close to whisper.
“
Hey, whassup, Nate?” Jason asked, slurring a bit.
“
Hey, man, uh, don’t tell anyone but…I’m pissing my pants right now.” Nate smiled that Cheshire cat grin of his. Jason jumped back; he looked down and saw the stream of urine flowing down Nate’s leg, past his shorts.
The evening that followed was typical. The band started playing around 10 PM, which is when the shots would start going back and forth between Jason’s crew and them. How Rudy stayed up on stage some nights was anyone’s guess. The man had catlike balance when it came to drunken stage walking. As Jason stood on his seat with the bands’ encouragement and sang loudly along with them, he noticed the tiny redhead looking at him.
Jason started playing his game, giving the redheaded girl in the tight black skirt a glance now and then, making sure she was still looking at him. The game went on as Leo, Nate, and Mark grabbed Jason and poured the remains of a bottle of Southern Comfort down his throat. He drank the dark liquid expertly; he pulled his head away from Mark laughing and saw the redhead laughing with him.
Nate made his way to the front of the stage. Jason knew that it was almost closing time. Nate always made his way to the front to cause a minor riot just before closing. He had a built in alarm when it came to bar hours; Nate never did anything to get him or his friends kicked out of the bar until he knew it was already time to go anyway. They never left without a grand exit.
As Nate started to amp up the crowd in front of the stage, Jason made his way over to the redhead and struck up a conversation with her boyfriend.
Stephanie had been so innocent. It began with convincing her to just spend time together, talk and be friends. As she became bolder and less careful of the time she spent away from Phil, he began the seduction; the playful touching, and the whispers that were faux kisses, the wiping away of a strand of hair that became a caress of the cheek that became the real kiss.
She had known only one man before him. The lover she shared a home with for two years, Phil, always slept unaware as Jason would take her in the shadows of the yard, in the other man’s car or on the street in his own car. He would always have her somewhere close to her home, somewhere close to the man she so loved when he first met her and tried to take her out. She would go back to her bed with a smile. She was a villain now, too.
When Phil, slapped her and kicked her out of their home after she confessed, Jason just looked at her, disgusted by her actions. “Why would you fucking
confess
? Real villains don’t feel like they’ve done anything wrong….You were
stupid
to tell him!” She cried those same pitiful sobs that he remembered having cried himself what seemed a lifetime ago.
He left Stephanie at her mother’s house, weak and crying. He drove away before she even walked through the door. He was long gone before she drew the hot bath, before she swallowed her mother’s Percocet. He had driven away from her and forgotten her before she even had a chance to bleed out in her mother’s bathtub, still gripped by those painful, gasping sobs. He wouldn’t have cared if she had done it in front of him, anyway.
It was not that he was heartless. He didn’t want her to take her life. The tired, over-loving heart that once beat in his chest and drove him mad with grief, was simply worn out; bled dry by years of abuse. He could not bring himself to care for anyone, not even himself. He indulged in near-death nightly. Many a morning began with the familiar cocktail of Xanax, wine, and Vicodin.
He felt Nate and Mark’s hands grab him roughly under the armpits; the Xanax and Bud Lite had done their trick again, creating a moment lost in chemicals forever. Jason had been back in time, thinking about the first night he met Stephanie here. That didn’t explain how he got over to this side of the bar.
Why where his friends carrying him out of the bar? Who was that girl whose pants his hand had been in?
The questions and answers would have to wait as they dragged him down the rickety steps to the exit of the bar, barely keeping their balance.