Sixty-Two ☼ Phan

Twelve

I didn't believe it. I couldn't.

Or maybe I did. And that's why I was freaking out so badly.

I didn't give any of them the chance for another word before I had to leave. Call it shock, or just anger, but I couldn't stand another second there. Their eyes, worried and staring, surrounding me as all the pieces fit together. The puzzles were getting solved all of a sudden and I didn't want them to.

First, I started at a quick walk. Just to escape. Then, I was sprinting. And then running. Jumping over branches and winding around trees. They didn't call my name, of which I was thankful for, so I figured they wouldn't go after me, either.

After a couple minutes I stopped. My breath was rugged, despite only a short run, and I sat down immediately.

It was just so hard to comprehend. Not the idea of someone trying to hang themself, I understood that, but the fact he had. I couldn't imagine Phil, sad eyed but kind Phil, the same boy who showed me that little stone house and liked to hold my hand, hanging himself.

What could possibly have made him want to do that? To see life as so painful, to feel so trapped, that he couldn't think of any other way out than to kill himself?

It made me furious. How could nobody have tried to help him? Could nobody see him struggling? Even I, thinking about, would have been able to, had I known him. Sadness like that in his eyes would never be something I could look past.

The lighter in my pocket felt especially heavy then. I'd kept it on me since that first fire, the only one at camp so far. All the anger in me was burning again, little fireworks and dynamic sparks growing hotter beneath my skin.

I pulled out the lighter without thinking. This time, I didn't bother laying out a safe ground to burn on. I didn't care, couldn't concentrate enough to care about something so irrelevant.

So, still sitting there, I picked up a twig from the piles all around and caught it on fire. Then, before it could burn enough to touch my skin, I sat it further away from me. It didn't take too long to spread. I watched silently, hoping for it to calm me, trying to focus on those flames instead of my own.

Hoping. Trying. What pathetic words.

It wasn't really that dangerous. The leaves and sticks weren't as dry as they were last time, so the fire was minimal. A kitten, just born, struggling to feed from its mother admist six other siblings. I almost wished it was bigger, more lethal. I wanted to be consumed with smoke, to forget everything, starting last year. I wanted all those reds and yellows and oranges to kill me.

I backpedaled instantly at the word kill. Phil now at the front of my mind once more, I vowed to never again think of death lightly.

I wasn't sure how long I stayed there. Watching leaves burn, arms hugged around my legs and squeezing. I must have still been in shock, or denial, because the grief had barely sunk in. Grief of the fact Phil could have been dead. That I could have never met him. I was mourning over a death that never happened.

But, really thinking about it, what impact had Phil had on me, exactly? No monumental change, apparently, considering I was still the same. Some lanky kid with too many repressed feelings. How different would my life really be if the two of us had never met?

That question remaining, I had to also wonder, what was he to me? A distraction? I call him a friend, consider him a friend. Same with Peej and Chris. But how far does that label extend? Will I even text any of them after this summer? Or will I just keep this all as a memory and continue to burn whatever I feel like?

When I got sick of the burning colors I stood and turned away. I was going to just leave the fire as it was, let it burn and see how far it travels. Then I thought of Phil again and imagined a rope around his pale face and went back, stomping it out until the smell of rubber from my heels began to mix with the smoke.

As I walked, slow this time, through the trees, I considered where to go. Where I could go. Not to Chris and Peej, not to Phil. I couldnt face them again, not so soon. My initial thought, the previous names aside, was the stone house. So that's where I went, because I hadn't been back there since and missed it. Looked like Phil was influencing me more than I thought. Maybe I'll end up trying to kill myself, too.

So much for not thinking lightly of death.

I was in no rush. After my first run, I was already worn. The canopy of leaves and crunching underfoot kept my brain busy, left me something to listen and look at other than my thoughts.

The house was the same. Old and broken. Except more familiar, now. When I went inside, though, it did feel different, I guess, since Phil wasn't with me. It was like walking into your bedroom, knowing all your furniture wasn't there for whatever reason. There was a chirping insect echoing from somewhere as I shut the door back. Sunlight was shining directly through one of the windows higher to the ceiling.

I sat down by the smooth stone wall, next to the bucket of chalk. I noticed lots of fingerprints on it, and examined the way they overlapped. Over and over, same places every time, only varied vaguely.

All our drawings remained. Or, well, Phil's drawings plus my scribbles. I stared at them for a little while. Remembered the way his hands moved to sketch out the happy faces of his cartoon figures. After I had it imprinted into my head as well as I could manage, I took the red chalk, barely used, and started scratching over everything.

It was like pouring dozens of mental images all into a single color. I visualized every bad memory, every scene that made me unhappy as I scribbled. I had to be careful as to not break the chalk, but the flames never shrunk. The meaning never lessened.

There's always something oddly enjoyable about making yourself suffer. About picking up your emotional state and slamming it to the ground. It's terrible, but recurrs constantly. The idea of finally getting sympathized, finally getting your feelings seen as pitiful, even if it's only by yourself. Always circulating, reappearing any time you need to suck your thumb and stomp your foot a little. To act like a whiny brat alone, in solitude, because nobody else will put up with your bullshit.

I got about a fourth of the drawings covered before my concentration slipped and accidentally let myself get too aggressive. The piece of chalked snapped, making my nail slam into the wall. I jerked away and dropped the half that was still in my hand. In that moment, something else seemed to snap, too. As if that stick of red dust were anything more than it was, and instead somehow connected inside me.

It happened quick. The high-speed fast forward button. A drop of rain propelled from the sky. The heartbeat of a hummingbird.

And then I was crying. Like a baby. Like I did when I stole that Twix bar, like I did when my dad died last year. I just sat there and cried and cried and tortured myself by replaying all those emotions of red over and over again.