the corner, but I’m ready for him. I bring a frying pan down on his hand, sending the gun to the floor. I rear up for another swing, but he plants a fist in my gut, another in my throat. He’s got the frying pan and the gun now. I guess I should have seen that coming. I land on my tailbone, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as I would have expected.
When Valerie left, I took up suicide as a hobby. I never really committed to the idea, but just incase I drank too much one night and started to take the whole thing seriously, I hid pills and knives and other objects that end lives in places I don’t normally go. Under the sink, I hid a set of steak knives next to the bleach and Drain-O. I open the cabinet, grip one by the handle, and plunge the blade through the top of Roderick’s boot. He yells, though it’s hard to tell through all that breathy noise the mask makes, and I think he shoots me in the back, but I can’t feel much of anything at this point. I just plow into him with all my weight. We go stumbling out of the kitchen, and the gun is out of his hands. I get myself up, and for some reason go wandering back into the kitchen, barely recalling that I’ve just been shot. All I can think about are french fries.
Roderick goes back on the offensive. He grabs me from behind, and I’m grabbing anything I can get my hands on. This amounts to about as much as the faucet, and I can’t very well rip that from the piping and beat him to death with it (as much as I’d like to). I kick up my legs, planting my boots on the edge of the counter, and push, slamming Roderick into the wall where the fridge used to be. I repeat this process twice before he loosens up enough for me to wiggle free. I drop to my knees and scramble through the living room, into the bedroom, and slam the door shut just in time for him crash into it.
I’m relatively calm for all the panicking I’d like to be doing. I drop to the floor, putting my back to the door, and rip the poison dart from my body. For whatever reason, it hurts a lot more on the way out than it did going in.
An explosion above my head, and my world is all bells and silence. Wood and dust rain down around me. I decide to stand, rather than diving to the floor like a normal person being shot at, and Roderick’s playing with a shotgun. Playing or operating the thing like a surgeon, I can’t be certain. He casually walks up to the bedroom door, reaches his hand through the hole he’s conveniently made, and unlocks the knob before stepping inside. He raises the shotgun and I turn, opening the refrigerator door. The stainless steel absorbs the buckshot. Most of it. A few beers explode and shower me. I glance up at the gallon of unopened milk in the back of the fridge. I grab it, stand, and swing blind over the door, connecting directly with the mask and its haunting persona. There’s a snap, a sickening crack, as Roderick’s head turns farther than I would have anticipated from a gallon of milk hitting a man square in the snout. His body crumbles to the floor.
I follow quickly behind.
8
CONTROLLED BURN
On nights and weekends, before he retired from the barbershop, Dad worked as a self-employed carpenter. He’d build decks, cement driveways, replace plumbing. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix or rebuild. My least favorite part of the day was his return home from work. Russell and I were required to greet him, to stop whatever it was we were doing, to hug him and kiss him and ask him about his day. He never shaved, but never grew a full beard. He could have used his face to scrub the shower or clean the grit off the grill. And when he bent down to hug me so I could kiss him, my body against his was like trying to take a nap on concrete. There was nothing to resemble comfort within his grasp, unless he happened to be shielding you from a forest fire or a meteor shower. How my mother ever made love to him to give Russ and I a shot in this world
When Valerie left, I took up suicide as a hobby. I never really committed to the idea, but just incase I drank too much one night and started to take the whole thing seriously, I hid pills and knives and other objects that end lives in places I don’t normally go. Under the sink, I hid a set of steak knives next to the bleach and Drain-O. I open the cabinet, grip one by the handle, and plunge the blade through the top of Roderick’s boot. He yells, though it’s hard to tell through all that breathy noise the mask makes, and I think he shoots me in the back, but I can’t feel much of anything at this point. I just plow into him with all my weight. We go stumbling out of the kitchen, and the gun is out of his hands. I get myself up, and for some reason go wandering back into the kitchen, barely recalling that I’ve just been shot. All I can think about are french fries.
Roderick goes back on the offensive. He grabs me from behind, and I’m grabbing anything I can get my hands on. This amounts to about as much as the faucet, and I can’t very well rip that from the piping and beat him to death with it (as much as I’d like to). I kick up my legs, planting my boots on the edge of the counter, and push, slamming Roderick into the wall where the fridge used to be. I repeat this process twice before he loosens up enough for me to wiggle free. I drop to my knees and scramble through the living room, into the bedroom, and slam the door shut just in time for him crash into it.
I’m relatively calm for all the panicking I’d like to be doing. I drop to the floor, putting my back to the door, and rip the poison dart from my body. For whatever reason, it hurts a lot more on the way out than it did going in.
An explosion above my head, and my world is all bells and silence. Wood and dust rain down around me. I decide to stand, rather than diving to the floor like a normal person being shot at, and Roderick’s playing with a shotgun. Playing or operating the thing like a surgeon, I can’t be certain. He casually walks up to the bedroom door, reaches his hand through the hole he’s conveniently made, and unlocks the knob before stepping inside. He raises the shotgun and I turn, opening the refrigerator door. The stainless steel absorbs the buckshot. Most of it. A few beers explode and shower me. I glance up at the gallon of unopened milk in the back of the fridge. I grab it, stand, and swing blind over the door, connecting directly with the mask and its haunting persona. There’s a snap, a sickening crack, as Roderick’s head turns farther than I would have anticipated from a gallon of milk hitting a man square in the snout. His body crumbles to the floor.
I follow quickly behind.
8
CONTROLLED BURN
On nights and weekends, before he retired from the barbershop, Dad worked as a self-employed carpenter. He’d build decks, cement driveways, replace plumbing. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix or rebuild. My least favorite part of the day was his return home from work. Russell and I were required to greet him, to stop whatever it was we were doing, to hug him and kiss him and ask him about his day. He never shaved, but never grew a full beard. He could have used his face to scrub the shower or clean the grit off the grill. And when he bent down to hug me so I could kiss him, my body against his was like trying to take a nap on concrete. There was nothing to resemble comfort within his grasp, unless he happened to be shielding you from a forest fire or a meteor shower. How my mother ever made love to him to give Russ and I a shot in this world
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