Until We Burn_A Psychological Thriller

by David Duane Kummer

  “I don’t mind it. Bad news means more than good.”

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “You think so, huh? You sound like me at your age.”

  Will didn’t answer. His eyes were focused on the screen.

  “What’s your plan now? Focusing on other things since she’s gone?”

  Will nodded.

  “You gonna be working more around here?”

  Will nodded.

  “Alright, I’ll find some things for you to do. Maybe something upstairs, and I’ll show you everything I have up there. Would that be good?”

  Will nodded.

  Cyrus grinned, grabbing the remote and changing channels himself. First, a sport game, then a local channel showing the school theater production from the past weekend, and then a fuzzy screen with a harsh, shrieking sound.

  “Stop there,” Will commanded.

  Cyrus dropped the remote, leaving it on the screen, no signal.

  “We’ll watch this for a while, I think.” Will kept his stare locked on the television set and reached out a hand towards Cyrus. “Drink.”

  Hesitantly, Cyrus handed over the beer can. “You can’t have this stuff.”

  Will grabbed it and took a long gulp, finishing it off and crumpling the can with one hand. “Watch me.”

  He stood up from his seat, marching towards the kitchen. “Don’t tell my parents.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “Not sure if we have cops in this town anymore, really.” Will chuckled, the laughter fading away as he disappeared into the other room. Cyrus heard the refrigerator door swing open and then shut.

  “Kid, I really-”

  “Don’t.” Will entered the room again, holding two beer cans in one hand and a large knife in the other. “Come fight me if you want.”

  “Will-”

  “Don’t.”

  “This isn’t normal, Will.” Cyrus ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep sigh. “Look, I wanna help you, but if you’re doing all this I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “I need to numb the pain,” Will growled, taking another drink. “People handle grief differently. This is my way.”

  “Look, Will, I’ve never been much good at handling it either, but this doesn’t help anything. It simply hides it. To deal with grief, you have to take action, really do something, you know?” Cyrus pressed both hands against his eyes, groaning. “Will…”

  “I am doing something.” Will grinned maliciously. “I’m gonna blackout.”

  “Come with me,” Cyrus said, hopping up from the couch. He thrust out a hand towards Will. “I just wanna show you something. Before you make… this decision.”

  Will shook his head, his eyes already foggy and empty. “I… want to stay here.” He set the knife down on the table. “I want to sleep.”

  Cyrus reached down with both hands and picked him up under the armpits. Setting Will on his feet, he began to shepherd him out of the house and towards the driveway. Stumbling along the way, it took him a solid five minutes before Will was seated and buckled in the passenger’s seat.

  Climbing into the driver’s side, Cyrus started the engine and locked the doors. As he began to pull out of the driveway, Will sat up and started to shake.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, pressing a hand against the window.

  “To show you something.”

  “Show me what?” Will mumbled, clenching his fists together and starting to pound the dashboard. “Tell me!”

  There was no answer from Cyrus as Will threw his tantrum in his seat. It was only a short drive to the site, but seemed incredibly long because of the noise and stress from his passenger. He parked the car on the side of the road, hurrying around to lead Will from his chair. A little ways off, in the field, stood the old church, what was left of it. A familiar pile of trash. A glorified, glorious wreck.

  Reluctantly, he followed Cyrus over towards the charred remains. They stumbled through the field, stepping in holes and over the tall grass. Behind them, the church sign caught the sun at a strange angle, exemplifying its colors and making the yellow brighter than the celestial object it reflected.

  “You see these bricks?” Cyrus addressed Will, pointing at a specific section of the wreckage.

  Will shook his head, mumbling something, and spun around, darting for the car. Cyrus snagged his shirt and then his ribs, drawing him back.

  “Answer me, Will.”

  Will shook his head, starting to sob and fight.

  Cyrus threw him on the ground, directly in front of the monument to a former way life, a former prosperity. “Look at this, Will. This is what remains of what was our town’s church for nearly 200 years. And you know what it is now? Nothing. It’s empty, lower than the weeds.”

  Will shouted something inaudible, his words slewn together.

  “Look at this, Will, because this is where my son died.” Cyrus knelt down next to him, grabbing his face firmly. “You see that brick with the words scratched on it? You know who wrote those words there?”

  Snarling, Will tried to bite at his hand.

  “You won’t remember any of this tomorrow, Will, not a thing.” Cyrus began to pant, his shoulders rising and falling as his voice grew louder. “I wrote that, Will! Me! People deal with grief differently, right? Well at some point you have to man up and face the facts, even if it’s not what you want. And guess what, Will? You screwed up big-time. And now you have to face the consequences. Not me, not your parents, you. No amount of alcohol or make-believe joy can fix that!”

  Will clutched at the grass, screaming. Cyrus noticed his hands were beginning to break out in a rash, and picked him up by the armpits again.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Cyrus mumbled. “There’s nothing more I can do. This is your decision.”

  The next day, Will would wake up in bed, itching everywhere and with a throbbing headache. His parents told him that he had fallen at Cyrus’s house, smacking his head on the ground, and that his hands reacted to some of the new flowers he’d planted, an unknown allergy. Will would nod his head, groan, and fall asleep again. None the wiser.

  Underneath his bed, three bottles of alcohol sat in the dark, what he’d stolen from Cyrus’s cabinet. That man, his hero, none the wiser.

  The dreams came on stronger this time for Will, Cyrus appearing like an angel clothed in white, to lead him to the promised land. He had all the answers, all the knowledge. He could fix anything, and destroy anything. Will grinned, feeling a sense of pride and wonder. How could he be so lucky?

  None the wiser.

  <>!<>!<>!<><><>!<><><

  “Ballhog,” one of the boys grumbled, as Zada snatched it from the air and began dribbling up the court.

  They’d been playing 4-on-4 for nearly an hour. All the others were showing signs of slowing down, and sweat dripped from their disgusting shirts. She held herself above them, wearing a cut off and a sports bra underneath, ignoring their perverted stares and choosing instead to beat them angrily and efficiently at the game. Her game.

  “Try to keep up,” she called, no amusement in her voice.

  One of the opposing players stepped to to try and guard her. With two crossovers, she spun around him easily and laid the ball off the glass for two points. Despite her gender, she played more smoothly than any of them, and gave barely any effort.

  “If any of you were actually good, I might know how talented I really am,” she jeered. “Too bad there’s no competition around here.”

  One of her teammates glared at her, but she ignored him. The best player on the opposite team walked down casually, dribbling the ball. He was the biggest, the strongest, and the most annoying of them all. Her eyes locked onto his chest, as she crouched in a defensive stance and gritted her teeth. Usually, she was content to take it easy. Not today, though.

  “She’s just pissed about something,” he chuckled. He was nearly at half court now. “Your boyfriend break up with you?”

  Zada didn’t answer
, staying ready.

  The other boys laughed too. She felt their eyes on her back, probably her butt, and steeled herself against them. Most girls would feel uncomfortable or squirmish, wanting to run away. Some days, she did. But this was different, and she wanted to beat the problem, break it, instead of leaving. This was her court, her home.

  “Take it easy, Princess.” The obnoxious one was grinning again. So ugly. “Good thing they don’t let girls carry guns in this town. You’d have-”

  She whipped forwards, smacking the ball away and streaking down the court with it. He fell onto the ground, clutching his chest.

  “Foul!” the others called. “Come on, really?”

  With a jerk, she stopped just at the three point line and shot, showing no emotion as it swished through the net. It hit the pole that held the goal up, bounced back to her. She scooped it in one arm and walked towards the boy who was climbing to his feet.

  “Seems I fouled you,” she growled. Eyeing him disdainfully, she handed it over. “Your ball, then. Try not to lose it this time.”

  He smirked, and in a flash reached around to smack her butt, not painful but loud. She wasted no time, drawing back a fist and landing a solid punch directly to his nose. She heard the crack, felt it against her hand, and drew back with blood coating her knuckles.

  “Oh my God!’ The others rushed to help their fallen comrade, who was kneeling now, wincing as he felt with a very light touch.

  “Broken,” she murmured, taking the ball and leaving the court. She felt them glaring at her. That was probably the last straw, the last time she’d get to play a solid game of basketball with them.

  “Hey! Come back here!”

  She whipped around, flipped them off, and took the ball with her, not sure who it belonged to. They could buy another one. This was hers, and she’d dominated them enough to earn it. Put up with their racist, sexist remarks, had every call go their way, and even dealt with some of the parents who were angry about her style of play.

  “Now what…” she mumbled to herself, dribbling the ball up the barren sidewalk back to the main road. There were only so many things to do in this town, after all. Basketball had been her main hobby. Perhaps, after some time, they’d take her back, and would respect her now. Or maybe not.

  They were right, though. She was on an extremely short fuse, and it had to be Will, or rather what had happened with him. Was it fair, what she did? Was it right? Was it a good decision?

  Those were all questions she couldn’t answer yet. However he was taking the breakup, it couldn’t possibly be worse than what she was going through. Then again, he was… somewhat unstable. Unpredictable.

  “Oh, Will.” She sighed, holding the ball to her head and smelling the dirt and sweat caked on it, on her. “Please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  Chapter 27

  Seduction

  He could see her silhouette through the curtains, thin as they were. She approached his house warily, strutting like a peacock and holding a jacket tightly around her shoulders. Cyrus set his beer down on the table, stood up from the couch with a groan, and made his way towards the door.

  “Won’t leave me alone,” he mumbled. “Won’t ever leave me alone.”

  As soon as she knocked, he swung the door open wide, glaring at her. Anne McBay’s eyes widened, and she grinned sloppily, holding out a bottle of wine.

  “An… apology.”

  He eyed her dress, cut inappropriately low on the top and barely covering a thing on the bottom. “Doesn’t look like an apology. I can see why you wore the jacket. Someone might mistake you for a hooker.”

  She blinked twice, clearly hurt by his remark. “Can I come in?” Her voice slurred.

  Without answering, he stepped back into the house, leaving the door open. He led her into the kitchen, where only a jar of peanut butter sat on the center of the table. She followed him, clumsy footsteps on the floor pounding behind him.

  “Nice place,” she murmured, setting the wine bottle on the counter and taking a seat. “How much did it cost?”

  “I hate small talk,” he snapped.

  “Oh… Why the peanut butter?” She nodded towards his cabinet, which had a door hanging open. Inside were rows and rows full of it.

  “It was Ophelia’s favorite.”

  “Oh.” She curled her lip. “Interesting.” Ann shot a hand out to balance herself on the table.

  “Mmhm.”

  “I missed you at church. Y… yesterday,” she went on. “Why weren’t you? I was… hoping to show you something… um, after the-”

  “I had business to take care of here,” he replied sharply. “Real-life work.”

  “Is that… dig... what? My job? My job?” she raised an eyebrow, laughing.

  “Why are you here, Ann?” Cyrus asked groggily, leaning against the doorway, blocking her from the sitting room.

  “Like I said. Apology.”

  “You didn’t come here to apologize. Not with that much makeup and that small of clothing.”

  “I wanted to ask you-”

  “Ann.” He stopped her, raising a hand slowly. “Listen. I’m not going to have sex with you. I’m not going to fall in love with you. I’m not going to do anything but yell and get frustrated.”

  “Why do you think… all I want is sex?” she accused, her voice straining with emotion, but growing weaker and less coherent.

  “Have you given me any reason to think otherwise?” He shook his head, sighing. “I’m not here to meet girls. I’m here to kill somebody.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She bit her lip, her eyes starting to fog over, but she seemed to grasp a moment of sobriety. “Then why are you spending so much time with that Will kid? That’s a relationship you ‘didn’t plan on.’ So are you just here to befriend teenagers, or do you have something against my personally?”

  Cyrus smirked, giving her an expression of disbelief. “How dumb are you, really? I spend time with Will because I see potential in him, I see the ability to do something great. He’s going to do something great. Just you watch.”

  “And what about me? Us?” She stood up from the table, taking a step closer to him. “We could do something great!”

  “Ann-”

  “Listen to me, Cyrus.” She leaned closer, until he could smell the perfume she’d doused herself in and taste her aroma. “I just want to help you. I want to make you feel at home in this town, so you can do your job more effectively. And when you find him… you can leave. No questions asked. Just give me a chance, and you’ll see.”

  “I think I already found him,” Cyrus growled. “I don’t need anyone’s help, especially not yours.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She pressed one hand against his chest, slipping one of her shoulders out of the spaghetti-strap silk. “Well, who is it? Why don’t we… talk about it?”

  “Ann, I told you no-”

  “You told me no,” she whispered, “but later you’ll be yelling something else-”

  “Get off!” he shouted, pushing her away from him.

  She stumbled backwards, landing on the ground and smacking her head against the chair. It looked painful enough to bruise, but there was no blood. Not yet.

  “I said get off me!” he continued yelling. “Get away from me! I have a wife!”

  “Cyrus, your wife is dead.” Her shoulders began to shake and she reached up to the table for support, dragging herself to her feet. “She’s dead! Get on with your life! Live a little! There are other people in this world, that want you, that need you!”

  “Not for me,” he mumbled. “Ophelia is everything to me. Everything I do, I do for her.”

  “I am perfect for you!” she screamed, lunging at him from the ground.

  Cyrus backed out of the way, retreating into the other room, behind the couch. He heard her throwing things in the kitchen, slamming cupboards and smashing the wine bottle on the wall. She threw something heavy. It sounded like a toaster. He held his breath, trying to remain calm, waiting for her t
o confront him.

  “I’m perfect for you, Cyrus, and you’re perfect for me!” she continued in a high-pitched, wailing voice. “We’re meant to be! Our love is something unbreakable, unbearably strong! Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel this?”

  There were slow footsteps, as she came around the corner, entering the living room. A wicked smile was plastered on her face, one of her shoulders hanging out from the dress. Blood was dripping down her neck, around to the front, and down her chest, all flowing from a cut on her head.

  But most frightening of all was the long, sharp knife she held in her right hand, pointing it at him.

  “Be with me,” she pleaded, squinting her eyes and starting to sob as she approached. “Be with me!”

  “Ann, let’s just talk-”

  “No! I’ve tried talking!”

  The more she talked, the closer she got. Cyrus reached behind him on the table, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She continued to rant.

  “I’ve done everything possible, for you! All for you! I’ve loved you in the perfect way that nobody can understand. Like a mother, a sister, and a bride all wrapped up in one. I’ve been everything you could ever dream of, Cyrus! Sexy, smart, exciting, dangerous. Love me!” she howled. “Love me!”

  He felt the beer bottle, but his hand slipped and it fell off the table, breaking on the ground into a few, large pieces, nothing compared to the wine bottle in the other room. But she saw it, and her eyes grew even darker.

  “You were going to attack me?” she whispered. Ann’s eyes widened and she raised the knife above her head. “You were going to kill me?”

  “Ann, no, I wasn’t-”

  “Love me!” she shrieked, racing forwards and bringing it down with a lunge.

  He caught her hands with two of his and pried the weapon away, throwing it across the room. She fell onto the ground, her knees hitting the floor as she began to pound it, shouting inaudible words and meaningless phrases.

  “Ann…”

  “I just asked for you to love me,” she cried out, crawling towards the front door.

  He watched her go, as she reached up to open it and finally left, her knees scraping against the ground as she slithered over the porch, dragging her jacket behind. In a few minutes, her car squealed out of the driveway, leaving Cyrus alone and confused.