Burn with me

by Rachael Tonks

  “You know that guy?” I question, pointing. I’m intrigued to know if she has any info on the mysterious guy from my apartment.

  “Oh isn’t he a dream?” She looks at me, her hand clutching her chest.

  “Which one?” I ask, her vague answers are becoming a little annoying.

  “Josh.” She gives a look like I should know who Josh is. “Oh, he’s the total dreamboat.” She swoons, pointing to the other guy, not the one I recognize from the apartment.

  “What about the other one?”

  “Stay clear of him. He’s a bit weird. The word is he’s a bit of a freak. The only person he talks to is Josh, but even then he rarely talks. Pretty much hides out in his apartment so everyone says. He turned up a few years back. When he started school he wouldn’t talk to anyone. I’ve heard he’s covered in scars. Some scary shit has gone down with that one.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him a few times around my apartment. He never speaks.”

  “See.” She holds her hand out. “He hardly speaks, and no one knows the reason why. God only knows why Josh befriended him.”

  I stand there with my arms crossed, feeling a bit pissed off.

  “Don’t be so judgmental, Rose. You never know what the poor guy might have been through.”

  “Well, my dear, no one will if he never talks.” She shoots me a fake smile. “Anyway, he had quite a few pieces of his art displayed in this arty farty exhibition they did at the college once. They were good, I mean really good. Everyone was talking about them for weeks, months even. He’s like the local freak celebrity around here.”

  I shoot her a dark sideways glare. “Enough with the freak calling, Rose. What are we? Still in high school?”

  “I say things as I see them, Amber. You’ll get used to me.” She lightly laughs, trying to shrug off what a complete bitch she’s being.

  “That’s not saying it how it is, Rose. That’s being a bitch.” I scold her. Her mouth drops open in disbelief. She sullenly crosses her arm, turning her head away from me. I didn’t care. If I think someone is wrong, I’ll set them straight.

  “So, what’s his name?” I quiz, desperate to know more about my neighbor, less the catty bullshit.

  She screws up her face, tapping the side of her head as though wracking her brain for the answers. “Huh… oh yeah,” she squawks. “His name is Caleb. I nearly didn’t remember for a second.” She chuckles lightly.

  Caleb, huh? I stand there waiting for her brother to be done, but my mind wanders to thoughts of Caleb. What had happened to make him so averse to being around people? The more I think about it, the more I become determined to find out more about him, to see if I could help. Everyone needs someone, right? Maybe I’m that someone for him. I’m no fucking therapist, but I’ll give it a shot.

  Looking at Ryan, I hope he finishes up soon. After the long night out and then the full work day, I was ready to get home and into some comfy clothing.

  I need to get the contact details for the dance facility I found before moving here. I need the outlet and if I delay in getting signed up, it may not happen. Dancing is the one thing I love to do and I’m not giving up on my dream of becoming a professional dancer. I hope beyond anything that I can make dancing my job, but college is my back up plan. My other option should I never make it. The constant moving as a child inhibited my ability to get established with any particular dance school, and some of the foster parents were unwilling to pay for my lessons. When that happened, shit always got messy. I would act like a spoiled brat, but I’ve always needed to dance.

  Every time I was placed with someone new, I was promised that I would be allowed to continue dancing, but when it came to it, it was a whole different story. Now on my own, I got established with CJ’s Dance Academy over the last few years and progressed well. That’s another reason why I didn’t follow my only true friend to college. I had wanted to pursue dancing at CJ’s. The owners loved my style, but relationships were fractured, the other girls always hating on me when I’d get auditions. In the end, with what happened at college and the shit they were putting me through at the dance academy, it was time to cut and leave it all behind.

  “All done.” Ryan claps his greasy hands in front of my face, snapping me from my daydream.

  “Thank you, Ryan.” I smile, eager to get outta here. I was beat. “I’ll be sure to mention to Lily that you saved my skin tonight.”

  He rests his arm against the car, almost trapping me in. “Why don’t you thank me over a drink? You got your ID, right?

  I blow out an exaggerated breath. “Ryan,” I pause, wondering how the fuck I’m gonna say no and let him down gently. “It’s been a long first day. Maybe some other time, yeah?” I know I’m a blunt bitch at times, but there’s no way I want to look like an ungrateful cow.

  “I’ll hold you to that.” His face changes as his broad grin spreads.

  “Well, thank you for changing my tire. I would have been totally screwed if you hadn’t come along.”

  “You could still be totally screwed. I mean, if you want to.” His smirk widens and I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Nice try, you old romantic you,” I say, sarcasm oozing from my words. I push his arm out of the way and side step him, making my way over to my car.

  “Thanks again,” I shout back over my shoulder before quickly jumping in and driving off.

  Caleb

  I spent the whole day finishing my commission pieces so they are ready for next week’s delivery. The apartment has been quiet since I heard her leave earlier today. Yet I can’t help but think about her. What she’s been doing. Who she’s been with.

  But why?

  That’s the part that has me baffled. Why am I thinking so much about a girl I don’t know a damn thing about? I shake my head. After what I did, I don’t have the right to think about any girl ever again.

  After what I was forced to do. The memories I live with haunt me every day.

  I think about her often. About what happened to her after the trial.

  What I did to her was fucked up. Wrong in every way. But I had no choice. I suffered right with her, but the memories of my misery pales in comparison to what happened to her. The fact that it was me that did it.

  How am I supposed to live with myself knowing I did something so fucked up, so horrendous, yet had no choice? My mind plays the scene over and over and my emotions rage through me like a fucking tornado. I clutch my fist, turning and punching the wall with all my might. It’s a release of all my emotions that I need, but what I felt is not human. It’s twisted and sick. It’s the pain, deep in my soul. It burns so bad, spreading like wildfire through my veins. Every part of my body burns. The heat of my anger. My expulsion of rage, uncontrollable as I throw my arms out, knocking the few objects on the tabletop across the room. I yell. No longer can I contain the pain that scorches through me. My anger soon turns to tears as I crash to the floor, my body shaking and aching from my outburst. I cradle myself like I’m a fucking baby. I’m nothing more than a damn child, sobbing into my own pathetic arms.

  ***

  Once I’m finally able to pick myself up, I decide to focus my attention back on doing what I love. My job means I get to hide from the world. Keep my sins with me, not answering to anyone. Except there are times where my job takes me outside the comfort of my own four walls. I have three pieces to deliver this week, and I’ll do everything I can to deliver them without being seen. By having the local art studio showcase my work, it’s caused me to be recognized locally when I’m out. Which I fucking hate, but if I want to sell my shit I guess I have to be known on some level. As long as they don’t know too much about me.

  Today my first stop is downtown. Somewhere I hate with an absolute passion and avoid at all costs. One of the business owners requested portraits of his three daughters. None of them are particularly easy on the eyes, but I did a good job at prettying them up. I always like to have background information when doing portraits. It allows their personality to sh
ine through on the canvas. In this case it was much needed.

  Wanting to look a little smarter when I meet clients, I dress in a black shirt and jeans, because that’s as smart as it gets with me. I tie my overgrown hair back, making a mental note that I must get to the damn hairdresser. Sighing deeply at the thought, I try to take comfort in the fact that it’s been about six months since I last went. I take a deep breath. Twice a year – I can manage.

  I fasten the last of the buttons on my long sleeved shirt, before shaking down my cuffs. It’s a struggle to prepare myself for these trips, not just mentally, but physically as well. I grab everything I need and head out to the car, loading the three precious paintings in the trunk. To avoid them getting damaged, I strap the canvases in place. I quickly scan the parking lot, checking to make sure no one has seen me. I don’t know why I do this. It’s a shitty fucking habit, but I feel more at ease when I know I’m unseen.

  I head toward the office of Mr. Hanson, quickly checking the time on the dashboard. I should get there right on time. Giving the car more fuel to move, I hope to get there with a little time to spare. This is my business, my living, the only way I can make money. I need this job to live.

  Except suddenly I’m not moving, but completely stopped. I bang my fist against the steering wheel in frustration. From where I am in traffic, I can’t see what is causing the backup. My eyes flit to the clock and back to the road again.

  “Fuck,” I roar. There is no way I’m going to be there on time. I drop my head against the headrest, fucked off with myself for not leaving earlier.

  By the time I make it to the offices I’m frustrated, but only a little late. Quickly, I remove the keys from the ignition, hop out of my car, and rush to the trunk, retrieving the three large paintings. They are covered in white sheeting, each one ready to be presented. The main office door is a block or so down, and as I walk toward it, a sudden burst of music causes me to snap my head and look at where it’s coming from. The building isn’t one I’d ever noticed before, but the sign says Grace’s Dance Studio. The side door is open and I make the mistake of looking in.

  My feet stop moving and my eyes lock on her. The girl from next door is dancing. She dances so beautifully. Every movement is elegant and seamless, her limbs in constant motion. I watch as she transforms from something beautiful to something magical, her mind and body lost in the music. I watch intently as her toned body moves effortless in time to the music.

  Until she suddenly stops. Standing there, chest heaving ever so slightly, she smiles at me through the open door. Shit. I have no idea what to do, so I move. Fast. Remembering I’m already late for my appointment, I don’t waste another moment on her.

  I curse at myself for the remainder of the short walk to the building. The palms of my hands are sweaty, my brow holding back the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Clutching the paintings, my hands shake as I walk up the few steps to the office entrance. The front of the building is made of huge glass panes, and I feel like I’m walking into a goddamn fish bowl. I walk over to the large desk located to the left of the open space, save a few small couches. The office is stark and white, feeling more like a hospital than an office. The blonde woman behind the desk smiles widely at me.

  “Can I help you, Sir?” My eyes are drawn to her bright red lips. Her mouth slightly parted.

  “Sir?” she says again, her eyes glaring at me. I pull my fist to my mouth as I clear my throat.

  “I have a hand delivery for Mr. Hanson. He’s expecting me.”

  “Okay. Give me a moment to call his office.” I nod and walk away from the main reception desk a little, looking around to try and find something interesting amongst the stark white walls. I turn at the sudden sound of the receptionist’s voice. She’s standing, waving her hand to beckon me. I take the few steps back over to her.

  “Okay, Mr. Hanson will see you now. You need to take the elevator to the tenth floor.” She points over to the far corner before reaching toward me, holding a piece of paper. Her eyes appear to light up, and the once wide smile fades to something else. It’s still a smile, but a different kind. The corner of her lip turns up, and her eyes sparkle. I meet her stare with wary eyes. Dropping my head, I give a slight nod before grabbing the piece of paper and head over to the elevator. Flipping the paper between my fingers, I press the up button for the elevator. Once inside the car, my eyes flit over to the receptionist right as she blows me a kiss. As the door shuts, I roll my eyes and take a look at the paper she’d given me.

  Call me

  241-852-1312

  Lucinda xx

  Oh fuck. I shake my head, rolling the piece of paper up as tightly as possible until it’s nothing but a misshapen ball and push it into my pocket.

  The doors open, revealing yet another stark white hallway. I walk until I reach another blonde with bright red lipstick. I double take, wondering whether this is the same girl from reception. I study her for a moment and realize where they may look the same, they are different people. The same hairstyle, the same streamline features, not a hair out of place. They both are dressed beyond perfection.

  “Are you here to see Mr. Hanson?”

  I nod, holding up the canvases in my hand.

  “Right this way.” She holds out her hand as she emerges from behind her desk and walks toward the white door. I stand behind her as she lightly knocks, listening for an answer. Within seconds, a man’s voice calls out to her and she opens the door slightly.

  “Sir, your visitor is here.”

  “Send him in. Don’t keep me waiting a second longer.” His voice gruff and assertive. She nods her head and steps to the side, allowing me access. I take the weight of the door, pushing it open further, before stepping in. My eyes dart around the room, unable to believe what I’m seeing. His office is a stark contrast to the rest of the sterile looking building. Windows span the entire length of the room, but the colors and décor are anything but sterile. It’s warm and homely; the entire office filled with pictures and soft furnishings. But the bright red wall and the black office furniture really make a statement.

  “Come in, son. I can’t wait to see your master piece.” I walk toward him, clutching the pictures in my hand.

  “Over there.” He points to a huge grey couch positioned against the bright red wall.

  I nod, lifting the pictures out, one by one before placing them on the seat. Standing them up the best I can, I make sure they are ready to be presented. The ribbon tied around each one is set to be removed, to showcase the three pieces. I step to the side, holding my arm out toward the paintings, signaling for him to take a look. He pushes his chair back, stands up, and rubs his hands together as he approaches the paintings.

  “I can’t wait to see what you did with them. They’re beauties, don’t you think?”

  I smile a little, tipping my head in acceptance. “Sure are,” I lie. But I’m never going to tell him that. They’re his daughters after all. He starts to unfasten the ribbons, one by one.

  “Boy, I love my art. I just know you did an amazing job on this. I saw some of your other pieces at the gallery.” He pauses for a second, his sad eyes meeting mine. “I was a friend of your parents.” I smile sadly, acknowledging that he knew Maria and Chris, my foster parents. “Sorry for your loss, kid. I can’t imagine that was easy for you.”

  Swallowing hard, I recall the couple that took a chance on me. The couple that guided me through those awkward years and held my hand through even more years of pointless fucking therapy. I take a slow, deep breath. I’m not about to let my emotions show to a complete stranger.

  “Thank you,” I answer, determined not to get drawn into a conversation with the guy. His head slowly lifts from its downturned position, his eyes now fixed on my face. His feet shuffle a little until his hand lands on my shoulder. I stagger back, his uninvited contact causing me to involuntarily shiver in disgust. I look at him. His mouth is rounded to an “O” shape. Obviously, he’s worried about my reaction and all I wa
nt to do is turn the fuck around and get out of this room.

  “What’s wrong, son? I don’t bite.” His eyes are wide and his face contorts as he stares at me bug eyed.

  “Shall we see if you’re happy with the paintings?” I offer my hand back toward the couch.

  He looks at me for a few seconds longer. His eyes full of confusion and unasked questions.

  I do the only thing I can think of and clear my throat, nodding at the paintings. He eventually snaps his inquiring eyes away from my face and looks back over at the only reason I’m here in this damn office. He tears at the paper covering each canvas before stepping back, his hand resting on his waist as he takes in the paintings. His head tilts from one side to the other. Watching with baited breath, I wait for his reaction.

  “Son,” he pauses, shaking his head. “These are true masterpieces. The colors, the likeness, it’s beyond perfection.”

  I sigh with relief. “I’m glad you like them,” I say meekly.

  “I never thought it would be possible to make them look more beautiful than they already do, but you seem to have captured that within these paintings.” He turns toward me, straightening his back. With one arm held behind his back and the other in front of him, he offers his hand to me. I step forward just enough to make the hand shake. His smile shows each one of his porcelain pearly white teeth, obviously not his own set. He shakes my hand so vigorously that my whole body moves.

  “I’m delighted, son. Truly over the moon with these,” he booms. “Now, before I forget,” he adds, holding up his index finger in front of my face. He plods over to his desk, pulling open the single drawer and taking out a check book. He quickly scribbles down some numbers, before tearing the slip, and handing it to me.

  “Now tell me if this is not enough. I know what a struggle it can be for you arty types,” he offers with a smile. I take the check, turning around to look at the amount written. I had originally quoted him five hundred dollars, but as I review the payment, I see he’s more than tripled the price. My eyes go wide. As I look back at him, I’m sure he can sense my shock.