Combustion

Prologue

Combustion

Prologue

Copyright 2015

     Ten minutes ago, I had decided that it was misunderstanding, not mischief, that brought about all conflict in the world. And so, ten minutes ago, I had taken my outdated car for a spin, not caring of the mischief I was about to cause, but rather the misunderstanding to follow. And it would follow, that is, if I got caught.

     My grand discovery led me here, the place that made my fingertips drum on the steering wheel, the place that illuminated my face with dim neon, the place that made my heart pound in retaliation against my skin, the place that made my stomach acid concoct a sickening potion, forcing me to be aware of its presence. Do I stay, or do I go? My nerves asked my brain, to which my brain cruelly responded by blasting 80's music that echoed in every thought. If I go, there will be trouble, if I stay there will be double. I had never thought The Clash's lyrics could be so powerful, but then again I had never thought I'd be sympathizing with an 80's rock band either.

     And it was true, if I left this place and went back to my obnoxiously perfect house, I would soon be bombarded with an array of questions, most of which had ran by my ears before. Where did you go? Why were you out so late? Don't you know accident rates go up after sundown? You could've been in a crash! If I stayed here, I could avoid such a familiar inquiry, yet I ran the risk of getting to know a worse one. My foot collided with the pavement, impulse coursing through my veins as my body made the decision for me. I figured that an unfamiliar scolding would be more entertaining than the regular.

     Dull street lamps illuminated the pathway to the formidable store as my bones ached with a somewhat familiar pang of nervousness. My emotions deceived me, for the store itself was nothing grand; it presented itself as any other: large fluorescent lighting bleaching the haphazardly organized shelves, contained by the smudged glass that was littered in neon advertising of this kind and that kind. As regular as the building seemed,  every inch of me screamed in reminder of just how out of place I was.

     I found my thoughts to be replaced with his, his constant worrisome nature and explanation of every last rotten possibility.  What if I get caught? What do I do then? Will I just be grounded for a year or will I actually go to jail? I shook my head as if the  questions would tumble away. I shouldn't think like him, not anymore. I was too old now. I am my own person.

     I charged in through the light glass doors, unaware of the temporary scene my overflowing determination had caused. My eyes, overwhelmed by the now distinct sights surrounding me, darted from wall to wall. A stack of cardboard boxes, fragile, some to be shelved at a later time. The cashier, a scruffy potbellied man, drained and glazed over, counting down the minutes until closing time. A metal rack, painted white, holding a case of bottles filled with honey-like liquid. My fingers unfurled, abandoning their protection on my palm, to reveal the smudged navy pen; the handwriting wasn't mine.

     A liquor store. I owed so much to her the past few years of my life, reversing his brainwashing. Teaching me how to live rather than how not to contract E. coli. This time, though it was only my second time, I was in charge of getting the beer. And , if her handwriting wasn't branded lies, the case I was fixated on was the one I needed.

     Task-oriented, I retrieved our prize of mischief, and feigned a casual stroll to the checkout. I could feel the weight of the case, or rather the weight of the crime, digging into my fingers with each step. It felt like nails, the ones they drove into Jesus' skin, or rather the actual sinner crucified behind him. It was time for the real mischief to begin.

     The sloppy cashier, unfocused, had lazily been dragged to attention by the sound of rattled glass as I placed my purchase on his counter. I felt my eyes plastered on him as he fiddled with the scanner, a mysterious heat stirring in my body. Dodging a judgmental glance from the man, who had gained awareness of my neurotic stare, I mechanically turned my head to gaze on the parking lot, my escape. Hoping to ease suspicion, my eyes followed a black pick-up as it pulled up to the side of the shopping complex, right outside the dirty glass. I was a deer caught in the sterile light of a run down shop, and I preferred to be tapped in the car's headlights instead.