A Life On Fire by Chris Bowsman

fucked up alternate world, whether Archie wound up with Betty or Veronica, and whether he’d fucked either of them in that hot rod, with Jughead probably watching and jerking off in the front seat—
       Gerald shook his head. “I really need to quit drinking and get some real sleep.”
       Mr. Holman raised his eyebrow again, then nodded in agreement. “Substance abuse plus lack of sleep tends to be taxing on one’s body.”
       Gerald responded by laughing and shaking his head again. “No shit,” he said. He sat back up, hugging his knees to himself. “So I’m overthinking this whole thing, right?”
       Mr. Holman nodded.
       “My wife is dead. She’s been on my mind more than usual lately. Is that and this whole mess a coincidence?”
       “Keep her in your thoughts. She’ll help you now more than she ever could before.”
       “Before what? Before she died?”
       “Your world was not meant to house one such as her.”
       “One such as her . . . What does that mean? And what does ‘your world’ mean? I really am in a different reality, aren’t I? Or am I just going crazy?”
       “It’s not about crazy.” Mr. Holman straightened his glasses.
       “I have no idea what the hell that means, but I’m not even trying to figure it out. No more overthinking from me. But what about Tracy? Why did I see her in the forest that night, with all those fucking things assaulting her? What does she have to do with this?”
       “Perhaps you’ll get to ask her yourself.”
       “I already have, haven’t I? I talked to her the other day—” The memory of talking to Tracy after the car wreck flooded back to Gerald. “How many times have I been to this reality? This place? I feel like whenever I’m here, I can’t remember my world, but when I’m there, I can’t remember here.”
       “It sounds to me like you’re overthinking it again,” Mr. Holman said, sounding like Ward Cleaver patronizing Wally and the Beaver.
       Gerald rolled his eyes, but pressed on. “Fuck that. Did I talk to Tracy?”
       “Yes.”
       “Can I see her whenever I want here?”
       “Not yet.”
       Gerald had expected a yes or no. “Not yet?”
       Mr. Holman shook his head slowly back and forth, stone faced.
       Gerald considered this for a moment. He realized getting answers from Mr. Holman wasn’t impossible, but took some finesse. He considered the wording of his question carefully. Rather than being confrontational, he chose to stay positive. “When can I?”
       “She told you, you have a choice.” Mr. Holman stood up, looking as if he was finished with the conversation and would soon be moving on.
       Gerald did not respond, but watched him with curious respect in his eyes. “I miss her,” he said, more at Mr. Holman than to him.
       Mr. Holman nodded again, this time closing his eyes and looking as if he genuinely understood.
       “Gerald,” Mr. Holman said, “you’re not in control here. Do not behave as if you are.”
       Before Gerald could respond, Mr. Holman turned and ran into the field, disappearing past the fence that hadn’t been there thirty seconds prior. Gerald turned around again and saw his house immediately behind him. He looked to the sky and saw that it had faded to its customary powdery pastel blue, streaked with clouds. No idea what to make of the encounter with Mr. Holman, or his parting words, he continued out to the field to retrieve his pistol.
       
       
    Gerald walked back and forth between the woods and the field for nearly two hours before he found the pistol, which turned out to be loaded, just as he’d thought. He took out the magazine, wanting to give it a thorough cleaning before it was fired again. It hadn’t rained in the last several days, but sitting out in the grass and dirt certainly hadn’t been good on it.
       He turned to walk home, but thought it was worth looking into the