Break Free & Be Broken (7 page)

Speaking of which... I should probably change. I put the bucket down and dash back to my room, thanking god I didn't splash any gas in my closet. Despite the cold, I go with the classics: tank top and running shorts. I figure if this outfit was good enough to live in, it's fitting to die in. I quickly change, being sure to keep any gas far from my fresh threads, then immediately resume the task at hand.

I grab the bucket from the bathroom and move to the kitchen, continuing with the generous portions. I pour most the gas on the cabinets and table, figuring they have the best chance of burning like mad. I finish up and move into the workout/living room: the final area to receive its dose. There is more gas left in the bucket than I anticipated, so I use the extra to soak the couch through. I save just enough to make a trail to the door. Fumes have got me light headed as a mother fucker. I escape outside, but it isn't until I am about ten feet from my door that the air is fresh enough to breathe deeply-which doesn't mean the smell of gas isn't still permeating everywhere-it just isn't so pungent I'm dying.

With dismay, I realize I didn't save any gas to fill a bottle. FUCK! The plan was to ignite this baby with a well thrown Molotov cocktail. God damnit. What are my choices now?

Option 1: toss a match in the door... Hell no. No way I'm lighting that bomb off from up close.

Option 2: siphon more gas to create a cocktail... HELL NO! My mouth will never be put in a situation like that again.

Option 3: ?... Oh I know. I'll just make a cocktail without the filling, so to speak.

I cover my face and sprint back inside, heading straight to my room. I grab my gassy shirt from off the bed and retreat with it outside. I cram as much of the shirt as I can into a bottle with as much speed as I can muster. I'm beginning to get nervous about the smell. Surely my neighbors are going to catch a whiff soon and come check what’s going on.

Oh shit... My neighbors.

Considering that their place is connected to mine, I guess they are gunna lose their residence tonight as well. I look deep within, searching for some shred of remorse, but the truth is, I don't give a damn. Let them burn. Makes no difference to me.

Startled by my indifference, I take a step back and try to induce the appropriate guilt. It doesn't come, and I get on with my chore. I truly don't seem to care. Huh. Hadn't realized I'd gotten so cold. Perhaps it is the weather, or maybe it's just the flavor of the night.

As I prepare to light the bomb, my eyes fall upon my watch: the time keeper, the schedule enforcer, the wicked master. He belongs in the flame. I snap it from my wrist and strap it around the bottle, giving it a first class ticket to the inferno to come.

Bomb complete, I light it and throw. I can tell the second it leaves my hand that I put too much gumption into it. It's going high, way above the open door. It smashes harmlessly against the wall-I think all is lost-but as the flaming shirt falls in front of the door, fumes from inside catch fire and a massive fireball explodes out. The burst of flame is far larger than I was expecting. I fall back in a stupor.

Holy fuck! Time to get the hell out of here!

I bolt to my car, start it up, and go. I take one last look at the boisterous flame at the end of my reverse, then put the car in drive and speed off-no more interest in looking back-ready for whatever comes next.

I probably shouldn’t admit it, but god damn! I'm having a good time.

Chapter the Fourth

I peel out into the night, pumped up, excited, and ready to take the big step into nothing. Only question left: how am I gunna do it? It's gotta be a guarantee this time-no more mishaps. The first, simplest option, I suppose, would be crashing into something at high speeds. I'm already driving. All I'd have to do is press my foot to the floor and pick an object.

Mmmmm, yeah, I could do that, but the idea certainly isn't jumping out at me. I'm not sure if the simplest option is the one I want in this case. I mean, come on, I'm talking about my final act here! I should do something... I dunno, more epic! Besides, cars are jam packed with safety features these days. It isn't likely, but I could, in theory, survive.

The most sure fire option is putting a bullet through my skull-scrambling the old brains a bit. No reasonable chance of survival there. But where am I going to find a gun? And even if I had one, where is the fun in shooting one’s self? It's a tug of the finger and you're gone. You don't even know it happened. It's too quick. There's no chance whatsoever to experience a final thought.

Come, Chales, think! This is the last thing you're gunna do on earth, man! Make it extreme!

Extreme... yes, extreme.

Ah!- there it is. There's the master plan. What is one of the most extreme activities a person can perform? Base jumping. And what could be more extreme than base jumping without a parachute?
Magnifico!
A perfect scheme. For one, I already know of a proper cliff. High, rigid, with lots of sharp rocks at the bottom. Chance of survival is complete zero. And what better way to capture myself some final thoughts? I want to experience my life flashing before my eyes and such. Jumping, I get to watch Death come up from the ground and greet me. He and I can converse the entire way down. And just to top it off, I'll get the exhilarating feeling of having my stomach jump up to my throat. My final physical sensation will be a next level overload of adrenaline!

That's it. It's decided. This plan cannot be beat.

To the canyon!

Up ahead, I watch a traffic light turn from yellow to red. Annoyance is quick to follow. I don't have time for this shit! I stop and look around. There is no one else on the street; the light changed on a damn timer! This light is one of my least favorite in the area, and since this is the closest intersection to my home, it's a light I'm very familiar with. The street crossing me is the big one, so the light always lasts forever for them, whether cars are coming or not, and I have to sit and wait. But what the fuck am I waiting for? There is no one else around...

Getting antsy, I scoot forward a few inches. The light remains red. “Come onnnn, come on, come on, come on!” I flash my brights. Incredibly, it doesn't respond. "Fuck!" I shout. Still red.

You know what? Enough is enough.

I have eyes and senses. I can look around and see that no one is coming. Why should I have to sit and waste my life at a light that is serving no purpose? I take my foot off the brake and drift forward, taking one last look around. Seeing no one, I go. A surge of adrenaline courses through me as I commit the devious act. My eyes dart about, just waiting to see those red and blue flashing lights, but they don't come.

And then it hits me. Who cares if I get a ticket anyway? I'll never have to pay it. Tonight is it for me. I can drive however I want! Death is giving me freedom like I have never had, and boy is it grand. I start pushing my foot closer to the floor, increasing my speed one mile per hour at a time.

Speed limit: 40 MPH. Current speed: 57 MPH.

My heart is banging up to my ears. A green light looms deep in the distance. Normally there would be no chance of making it, and even at this speed my chance is low. It's ridiculous, I know, but I must go faster. I must make the light! I push my foot down harder, breaking into the sixties and racing toward the 70's. I'm going nearly double the speed limit, and I can fucking tell! The landmarks around me are rushing by wayyy too quick. The narrow two lane road doesn't seem big enough to contain such speeds, but I keep pushing.

At forty yards out from the light, it turns yellow. I don't have to debate whether or not stopping is an option. It isn't. I let out a mighty yell and press my foot to the floor. I don't look at my speed anymore; I can't afford to remove my eyes from the road. Long before I hit the intersection, the light goes red. I lay down my horn, hold up a proud middle finger, and allow myself through. A few cars have to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting me; I hope they chipped their skulls. Seconds later, there is nothing left of the incident save the rapidly shrinking glow of headlights in my rear view mirror.

Good god this is fun.

I'll probably just be straight up arrested if caught at these speeds... but the solution is simple. If a cop gets behind me, I'll try to escape. I'll do my best to lose him, experience a great car chase, and then, if I can't get away, I'll end it in a crash. I'd say that would be epic enough to constitute my life's finale; plus, a high emotion situation like that would make it easy to do the deed.

Speed limit long forgotten, I whisk through the streets like a menace, disregarding any and all traffic laws. No light can hold me, and no vehicle can slow me down: I am the embodiment of hell on wheels.

Driving this way allows me to reach the canyon in 24 minutes. Never had I realized how much traffic was slowing me down, and never have I felt so dumb for being a sheep all these years. I really can't imagine anything more stupid any more than sitting at a red light when no one else is on the street, just because that's the law. Why I never questioned that logic before, I'll never know. I don't even want to think about what other things I've been following blindly that’ve only been holding me back. It's an abominable thought indeed.

I'm 15 feet into the canyon when I remember something that cuts through me like a hurricane of razors. I'm out of heroine. Am I really expected to do this sober as a bird? No, of course not, for birds can fly, and I'm expected to fall. I need to go out high and in style.

Curse the day! My phone is most likely a hot pile of goo right now... no way to call my man for drugs... so what am I going to do? Hmmm. Griff is surely home. A junkie of his caliber is always home. He won't be happy having me just show up... but who cares? It's only-I check my watch: that's right, my watch is gone. But my car has a clock, and it's what, six o'clock? A very reasonable hour. As long as I can convince him to give me something this time, what does it matter if he never wants to sell to me again? I'll be dead.

The perks of dying keep on comin! This kind of freedom is too good to be true: a final gift for the soon to be departed.

Griff lives twenty minutes in the opposite direction from my house, which would usually be well over an hour from here, but not tonight. No, no, not tonight. I continue driving like a madman. In a way, I have to in order to keep my spirits up. A back track like this was not in the plan, and normally, such a thing would have crippled me with discouraged frustration. Even tonight, the pain of such pricks menacingly through me, but driving like this is fun. I should just be grateful I get to do it a while longer.

I make it to Griff's in just 37 minutes. Looking at the place, I have no idea why cops don't just stop by and bust him. It couldn't be a more typical looking junkie abode. It's run down, dirty, and dilapidated-just like the people inside. I've never known if this is Griff's house or if it belongs to one of the other cretins who reside here. I've always assumed it is his because he seems to be the only one who is constant, but I really have no idea and have never cared to ask. I don't like associating with drug addicts; they are no friends of mine. I keep conversation to a minimum.

I park on the street and head up to the door, forging my way through mountains of cigarette butts and garbage to do so. Filthy scum. The lights are on, and I can hear chatter inside. I raise a hand and deliver the friendliest sounding knock I can-making it almost musical-doing my best to convey that the stranger outside is, in fact, a friend. The chatter fades. I wait patiently for the sound of approaching footsteps, but they don't come. I knock again-still friendly-but pepped with the spice of urgency. Perhaps too much spice, cause now I hear footsteps, but they're moving away.

Shit.

I knock again-loud this time-friendliness all but lost. "Griff! It's Chales brotha. Open up." I wait. I listen. Nothing. My anger rises. "Come on man, I'm in a tight spot." I bang on the door. "Griff!" I deliver a sound punch for the finale. No one comes. I over did it.

My anger flares.

I reach down and grab the door handle. I'm somewhat surprised to discover it's locked. Who in this house had the presence of mind to lock up? Undeterred, I take a step back, shift my weight onto my back leg, and prepare to send forth a kick. I'm getting in and getting my drug, one way or another.

Just as I'm about to kick, I hear the lock slide open and watch the door crack. A frightened eye peers out from inside. "Who is it?" I recognize the lazy, stupid voice immediately: Griff.

"It's Chales, man. What's crackin homie?"

"Chales? What are you doin here man? It's not the third of the month."

Impressive. He actually has the presence of mind to remember what day I normally make use of his services. It's unfortunate to see his memory working; I was kinda hoping to convince him I called.

"I know man, and I'm really sorry to just drop by. The thing is, it's kind of an emergency. It's my birthday, and I really need a score. Can you help me out?"

"Well shit man, it isn't cool of you to jus show up like this, ya know? And I hate to bum you out seeing as how it's your birthday and all, but I'm not holdin."

Lying fuck. An addict of his level always has plenty around. "Griff, come on! Don't pull my dick here man, you gotta at least have some personal?"

"Well... yeah, but it's called personal for a reason hombre."

The slow drawl of his voice is starting to piss me off. "Look, I'm telling you man, I'm desperate. I'm out here like a fiend in the night and I gotta get a fix. It's life and death. Please, man. How long we been doing business? I've never pulled anything like this before and I can
assure
you I never will again. I'll even pay double to make it worth your while."

I watch with pleasure as the promise of money plops through his beady little eyes and into his drug riddled brain. Good. This one's hungry for dough. Money equals drugs, drugs equal life, therefore, money equals life. It’s an argument tried and true, and the effects are working in my favor.

"I dunno man. I really only have a bit left. I'd be selling you all I have..."

Another fucking lie. I see those drug clogged cogs churning in his noodle. He sees my desperation and is fishing for more cash. So be it.

"I'll pay a hundred bucks for whatever you got dude, but that's all I can swing."

He feigns indecision despite the fact I've already won. "All right, all right. Come in."

He opens the door and invites me inside. The stank of burned tobacco bombards my senses the moment the door is fully open. As usual, the house is a heinous mass of filth. The ground is littered with beer cans and bottles, and every surface that can be used as a table is covered in cigarette butts and ash, much of which migrated south to join the garbage on the floor. A few pieces of filthy, worn out furniture sit unnoticeably around the room, as if embarrassed by their shabby appearance. Whoever was talking in here went off to more private places to spin their wiles, probably paranoid and assuming the worst from my knocking.

I try not to look around as Griff and I move to his room. I can't stand the disarray of this place.

His room, though slightly cleaner than the rest of the house, is still a mess. Clothes are scattered all over, along with the cans, bottles, and butts that seem to be a staple here. The disorder bugs the hell out of me. I hate it here.

Griff reaches into his drawer and pulls out a bag of my precious drug. As I thought, he has plenty, but I don't call him out on it. I wonder if he even remembers telling me he only had a little, the way he carelessly just pulled that out. What an ass. He grabs a balloon for me and passes it over.

"All right homie, there ya go." Clutching my balloon in one hand, he extends the other toward me, open and expectant of money. Money, money... shit! I have no money. Fuck! Griff is no slouch. He won't gimme the drugs without cash, even if I offered to go to an ATM right now. I suppose I really could run to an ATM... but no, I don't wanna make that run.

He may not be a slouch, but he is a junkie. Frail. Out of shape. Weak. A dark plan forms in my head, the kind of maniacal absurdity that can only be born of desperation. I stick out my left hand for the drugs and slowly reach my right behind me, as if going for my wallet. He takes the bait and drops the balloon into my hand. As soon as I have it firmly in my grasp, my right hand, now balled into a fist, comes whirling from behind me. I go for his gut, hoping that if I knock the air out of him, he won't be able to cry out. My fist hits with a whomp. He is thinner than I realized, and I swear I feel my knuckles kiss the inside of his spine. A raspy whoosh escapes his lungs and he drops to the floor. I consider hitting him again for good measure, but he isn't moving or making a peep so I don't bother.