It takes too long for Apple to realize the room is getting inhospitable. The temperature has risen to a degree much higher than he ever imagined possible, regardless of which of the hundreds of scenarios one might choose to replay. It is warmer than the flame of his fathers sketchy vodka. Hotter than the adrenaline gained from successfully sneaking out of the house. More scalding in fact, Apple realizes too late (far too late), than the sun itself. Absently, he is reminded of crayfish boiling alive.
Despite the seriousness of the situation he finds himself in, Apple distantly watches glittering embers gather on the ceiling, chasing them with an absent wave of his fingertips. He wonders how long it will take for the ceiling to collapse into a whorling cloud of ash and embers. It doesnât register in his mind that he would be a significant piece of collateral once the last structurally sound ceiling beam burns away.
He holds his hand up to it, like one would with the sun, trying to shield his eyes from the painfully bright light. Instead, he has the unfortunate realization that the pain in his eyes is derived from the thick smoke that smothers him, and weighs him down against the old wooden floor boards. Apple lets his hand follow the black snow down, resting it against his chest as the world around him swirls in intricate patterns. If each snowflake is unique, perhaps every flake of ash is as well. Trying and failing to follow them with his blurred vision, he is unsure if the cloudy darkness is a result of his own consciousness flickering, or the steady buildup of toxic fumes.
It was originally in his plan to run away from it all. He had wanted to let his long legs carry him out into the darkness. Instead, he had tripped over a now shattered bottle, and now, clear glass shimmers around his feet like glittering gems. The previously cool floor cradles his unwilling body, and slowly tries to deliver him to the same fate he put onto his father. He feels a surge of amusement at the irony of the whole ordeal, and laughs like a mad man. Which, to be fair, he recognizes that he probably is.
(Somewhere in the far away recesses of his quickly spiraling brain, he hears the abrasive sounds of a body desperately slamming against a door, over, and over, and over.)
His arms shake from the exhaustion of shoving a fully grown man into a broom closet and Apple realizes he can no longer feel his hands. He stares at them, trying to blink away his ever churning vision to no avail, but canât figure out if the redness spreading across them is due to the severe burning of his skin or his retinas.
Instead of addressing the consequences of his own actions however, he stares at a miniscule pile of black ashy powder. The sad remains of a match box he stole from someoneâs back pocket, now resides in a glorious fire, having completed their one and only task.
A strong breeze sweeps in through the partially collapsed ceiling just a couple feet away, and carries with it every last speck of the little incriminating pile. The fresh air barely makes its way to Apple, but when it does, the sharp contrast in temperature slaps him awake.
Suddenly everything is uncomfortably clear, and he is gasping for breaths of cold, thin air. Apple sputters and cries out in pain, his normally even toned voice made raspy and low due to the hazardous conditions.
âOpen the damn door Apple!â Is the first thing that rams itself through Apple's skull as he scrambles off of the floor, staggering for the briefest moment as pain receptors continue to turn back on and his body becomes the world's most vicious acupuncture battleground. The rattling of the locket closet door continues, uncaring of his plight, âOPEN THE DOOR!â The voice bellows this time. The rage is fearsome enough to rival the tongues of heat that lap the area.
Apple feels his body jolt upwards. His shaking hands push him off of the floor, the droplets of sweat that fall from his brow evaporate within seconds of hitting the old wooden floors of his home. He can feel the cuticles around his finger nails protesting away from his nails, unhappy about the lack of moisture in the air. He swings his head over his shoulder, swaying heavily with the motion. The room tilts and he tries to stabilize himself on a wall, recoiling as it scalds the tips of his fingers. The wallpaper is peeling, reaching towards him like diseased hands. His hip checks the couch before he can fall backwards and a hand instinctually grips it to steady himself, he will feel the deep bruise later, but for now he takes one last look behind him, making sure that the gleaming red handle of the small broom closet he used to hide in is still in the locked position.
There is a split second of hesitation before starts scrambling out of the house. With each step his vision dances, and there are several moments in which he is sure he will fall. The words useless, regretful, and treacherous spin in his head, and his thoughts refuse to take on any substantial form. The flames cast his shadow higher and higher, and it takes the shape of some wicked beast, slender bodied and sharply clawed. Yellowing wall paper curls in the hallway, the edges now gleaming with embers, as he sprints past it. The old patterns morph into faces and watch him with disgust as he makes his escape. In his paranoia, the popping of wood becomes taunting whispers. Promises that he will pay for his misdeeds, that his resistance will be used to deny him from happiness later on.
Apple believes the persistent voices that mumble in his mind. Their angry murmurs loop over and over in a cacophony of jumbled jargon. As he reaches the foyer of what was once a sleek hotel, the panicked yells of his neighbors join his personal orchestra from hell. His long legs carry him down worn stone steps to the shared courtyard just past the main entrance. The night air is freezing against his burned skin, his whole body shudders from an unholy combination of an Autumn night freeze and the adrenaline rush that comes with burning a man alive.
He hefts his plain black backpack tighter against him and makes his way towards the hole in the fence that he had made only an hour ago at the edge of the encampment. For this, there is no weight in his consciousness. Instead, there is the cool rush of freedom. He squeezes the screwdriver that weighs down his pocket. It hadnât been hard to find, nor had it been difficult to use it to swap out the door handle on the closet to something that had a locking mechanism. If it werenât for the dry heat of the roaring flames, it would have dripped with blood. Instead, itâs coated in flakey red. A dull reminder of his intentions earlier that day.
He knows he will feel like trash in a few hours, so as he ushers himself to the other side of the fence that insured his safety for 22 years he relishes in the taste of ash and freedom, and hides away from the light of his creation.
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