Ashes (10 page)

15

 

ARSON COULDN'T REMEMBER HOW he'd gotten into this room or what the pile of assignments in his lap was doing there, but his spine tingled still, and his hands were stiff and in need of blood flow. Finally, he forced his jaw open to get a word out.

“How'd I get here?”

Dr. Carraway answered, “The guard found you in your cell, unconscious. We're lucky we found you before the venom spread any further into your system. You know, a bite from a recluse isn't something people in your condition generally wake up from.”

“My condition?”

“Your current weak state, Stephen. You haven't exactly been eating. Though I can't imagine why. Aren't you hungry?”

“What? Yes. I mean, I don't know.”

“Slow down. Let your thoughts rest a moment.
You were bitten by a brown recluse
, and we found you unconscious. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

Arson nodded, but he desperately wanted to wake up from all of this. Wake up from this dream and go home.

“It's a good thing we did. I fear what might have happened if we hadn't reached you in time. Don't worry; sometimes those little vermin sneak into our facility. But we'll flush them out. We have the best people on it. If it crawls, it's getting sprayed to the underworld.”

“Dr. Carraway?”

“Yes?”
Arson breathed slowly, the chills sinking into his blood. “Why is it so cold in here?”

“I'd hardly call seventy degrees cold. Now, my professional opinion would be to hold off on our session for today.” A slippery smile parted the doctor's lips. “After the morning you've had, I—”

“I think I'll be okay,” Arson said, locking his arms tightly. He didn't like it when the guard eyeballed him like that. Big, macho dude standing with that pissed-off look on his face. The guy had one of those handlebar mustaches that no doubt made a snarling threat easy to pull off. He was also equipped with a puffed-out chest and monstrous arms capable of carving out some bimbo's name in the side of a brick.

“But is your buddy gonna stare at me the whole time?” Arson asked. “Don't think I'll be doing any tricks today.” He tried to push out a sarcastic laugh, coughing instead. It felt like there was an ice block stuck at the center of his throat.

Carraway put down his pen and took a seat. He gave the guard one of those looks Arson was familiar with. The ones he'd seen in movies. Something detectives might employ when working with a drug lord who didn't want to talk. Reluctantly, the guard left them alone.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Sure.” Arson sighed, rubbing his arms. The friction wasn't helping much. “What are they doing to me here?”

“I've already told you why you're here.”

“No, you haven't. Not really.”

The doctor crossed his legs and chewed on the tip of the pen. Furrowing his brow, he looked Arson up and down. “We've already discussed this. Your mind isn't—”

“Isn't what? Ready?
Ready for what?
I just woke up from being bitten by a brown recluse. I've been locked away in some stupid cell for who knows how long. I want to go home.”

The doctor's face flashed white. “If you're unhappy with the conditions of your r—”
 

“I close my eyes and I'm trapped in these dreams. Dreams that aren't mine! What does that mean? I wake up and I'm either hooked up to machines or in these stupid sessions with you.”

“Stephen, it's perfectly normal to feel this way.”

“Don't feed me that crap. Nothing about this is normal.” Arson looked down at his lap.
The papers with handwriting that wasn't his stared up at him.
A book he only vaguely remembered seeing before sat in his lap. “What's this book? Why do I have it?”

“That's
The Great Gatsby
, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Fantastic choice, by the way.
I have a copy myself.” A book with a tattered cover slowly appeared out of the doctor's pocket sleeve. A few loose pages fell out, but he picked them up quickly. “It's your favorite book, isn't it?”

“Where'd you get that?” Arson recognized the book in Dr. Carraway's hand.

“This one was passed down to me by my father. He was a closet Fitzgerald fan.”

Arson jammed the heel of his hand into his forehead, cleaning off the nervous beads of sweat like a wiper blade. “I want to remember. What is all this? I mean, is this some messed-up reality show?”

“This isn't a game, I promise.”

“Then what is it? Maybe you can't hear me right. I…
didn't
…write this!” Arson started tearing the pages and throwing them onto the floor. “In fact, I never did any of this. I didn't do these assignments. I'm not supposed to be here. I don't even know if you are who you say you are. You know what I think? I think this is all just a bunch of bull—”

“Stephen, there's no need to be melodramatic. My name is Dr. Carraway. Nick Carraway.”

Arson locked his gaze to the television monitor and the cameras peering at him from all angles of the room. He felt himself stir with rage, imagined what it would be like to see them explode to pieces of electronic trash on the floor. He bit down hard, chipping some teeth, he was sure. The veins in his neck pulsed, the cold slowly reversing. Nothing happened, though. Was he crazy for thinking he could do anything? The fire was gone, wasn't it? Maybe it was all part of the dreams.

Dr. Carraway hesitated momentarily. “I'm going to be honest with you. But you might not like the answers you get.”

“I don't care. I need to know. What's…happening to me? Why am I here? What is this place, really?”

The doctor removed his frames, setting the notepad on the floor. He scooted his seat closer to Arson and slouched forward. Face to face now. “A few months ago, there was a fire, as I told you before. Your grandmother didn't make it.”

“Yeah, sure. You've sold me this garbage already.”

“Just listen to me. The firemen got her out, but her lungs collapsed. They filled with smoke. Her body…just couldn't be revived.” Arson listened, still unsatisfied with this version of the truth, still wondering when the camera crew was going to pop out of the hidden doors and yell something stupid.
 

“You were standing outside the cabin, watching as the firemen arrived at the scene. Is any of this sounding familiar?”

Arson shook his head.

“It isn't easy for me to tell you this, but…the police identified
you
as the culprit.” Dr. Carraway's long forefinger jutted out as he issued blame. It might as well have been a nine-inch dagger. He slowly continued, “Kay Parker had no enemies to speak of. In fact, reporters claimed she rarely even left the cabin. I'm sure you could testify to that. Broken bottles—Molotovs— littered the crime scene.”

Dr. Carraway opened a manila envelope and pulled out three glossy images of a burning cabin. Arson knew the place. It was his cabin.
His
home, consumed by fire. “Your clothes reeked of smoke and alcohol. The police found a pack of matches in your back pocket.” The doctor's final words slowly spilled out. “You were convicted of arson.”

A memory flashed at the back of Arson's mind. He saw Mandy and the scumbags from the bonfire party. It was a summer night. He and Emery were at Mandy's house on the other side of the lake. He was nowhere near the cabin. In fact, he could remember being in a hospital bed but never going home. That was it. Why couldn't everything blend more clearly? So many parts were missing.

“This is crazy. You can't be serious. I am not a criminal. I wouldn't burn my own house. I would never hurt Grandma.”

“I believe you. But
it's
pretty condemning evidence. And…sometimes, Stephen, we hurt the ones closest to us without rhyme or reason.”

“No, no. That's not how it happened, all right? I was at a bonfire party with some friends, and things sort of spiraled out of control. I made a mistake, but there's no way I did this.”

“Really? Because I've gone through the report several times, met with the officers assigned to the crime scene. I've gone over a number of scenarios. If I am lying, why hasn't your grandmother come to see you? Where is she when you need her the most?”

Arson clenched his fists. “I…I don't know.”

Carraway leaned back in his chair. “I don't write fiction. Here, check for yourself; it's all there.” He handed Arson the folder with an array of contents inside. Arson refused to look at the evidence.

“I will say one thing, though. Something the police report never said.” The doctor surveyed him, and he didn't like it one bit. Arson suddenly felt like telling him to go to hell, if they weren't both already there. But he couldn't say anything because some part of him believed it.

Dr. Carrway leaned even closer. Arson could smell his breath, how it stunk of onions, mustard, and chicken. He listened to the doctor speak again. “I personally think the cops made this whole thing look like something it wasn't. I don't think you used matches or alcohol at all. That's kid stuff for you, isn't it? In fact, you aren't exactly like other teenagers, are you, Stephen?”

Arson blinked, sucking in a deep breath.

With a soft sigh, Dr. Carraway slowly brought his hand to the tie he was wearing and removed it. Then he allowed his neck some room to breathe. A scar in the shape of a hand glowed faintly against the flesh on his throat.

Arson gasped.

“During our last session you threatened me. Against my better judgment, I told you the truth. But the truth wasn't something you wanted to hear. When you began to strangle me, you left this scar behind. Tell me, Stephen, what teenager can grab a man's throat and leave a second-degree burn?”

Arson wondered if eternity had come and gone. He swore that his ability to create fire was no longer there. Never thought it could return, but it had apparently, without him even being aware of it. What was wrong with him? His body?

“I swear
,
I didn't know I was doing it.”

“So you
have
done this before?”

Arson nodded. He looked up at Dr. Carraway, feeling like a lost puppy wanting to be found again. “I don't know how I can do it. Did it.”

“Did it?”

“I thought it was gone. I mean
,
I was…in that hospital bed.” Arson's eyes spun, a jolt of realization coming quick. “And that agent, he drugged me or somethin'. I couldn't light up or do anything to stop him. The fire abandoned me.”

Dr. Carraway narrowed his gaze, growing defiantly impatient and slightly nervous.

“They took her.”

“Stephen, enough of this! No one has taken Emery anywhere!”

Arson's head jerked. “What did you say?”

“I said no one took your friend. I can't keep indulging in these adolescent fantasies.”

“I never said her name.”

Dr. Carraway choked up suddenly. His eyes became distracted. “Don't be absurd. Of course you did. Emery, your girlfriend,
right
? Emery Phoenix, that's what you call her.”

Arson twitched his eyebrows, his forehead sliding back. “What
I
call her?”

“Precisely right. You have imagined her. I've told you several times that these mirages will be of little help to you. Your psyche is still very fragile. We need to get inside your mind. We need to figure out how it works.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“You and me, Stephen. For the past several months, we have been trying to fix you. Your memories, your corrupted idea of the way things happened in your life. It makes perfect sense for you to want to escape. Your thoughts feel like dark prisons. It's no wonder you sought to create a companion for yourself. Loneliness can be cruel.”

Arson's eyes were angry, his lids like pale sleeves. He couldn't take staring at Dr. Carraway any longer.
 

“Try to comprehend it all. It's a struggle to let these memories go. It's almost as if there are two parts of your mind fighting for control. But one side isn't real. It is only fantasy. A dream.
Your imagination to want.
These
fabrications
are misguiding you. This bonfire party you keep referring to never happened. We've interviewed numerous students from the local high school, none of whom even knew your name.”

“It can't all be lies,” Arson shook. “It can't. It's not!”

“You needed to be reborn, to be something other than what you've been your entire life. Complacency can make us think and do strange things. The story of the phoenix—the goddess of the stars who dies and is reborn once again from her ashes— is precisely what you needed to believe in. It's obvious you would choose her as a lover. You said the image gave you hope that one day you could be something important. A hero.”

Arson closed his eyes, picturing himself staring at comic books from the scatter across his bedroom floor. The
heroes
he idolized. The
monsters
he identified with. He was someplace in between, lost. But he'd burned every one of them, hadn't he? He'd burned the comic books, and he'd burned the twisted schemers at the bonfire party.