Searching the Flames

         It’s a beautiful night on Trellis Lane. The air is crisp and cool after a hot summer’s afternoon. The crickets chirp cheerfully from the park just down the road. Young couples forsake their homes for the cool evening air, strolling merrily down the lanes, gazing up and pointing at the stars as they walk. Indeed, the stars appear to be within an arm’s reach tonight.
         A friendly light floods out from Claire’s Cottage, beckoning passers-by into its warmth, promising to chase away the shivers with hot coffee and warm hospitality. The building’s porch is adorned with brightly-colored plants, potted in rich earthenware. Vibrant purple draped tucked into the door’s corners cast a path of soothing lilac glow.
         The peace is abruptly disturbed as a frenzy of screams rises from inside. A young man with blond hair pushes through the door, holding his collar over his face. Blood melts through the cracks between his fingers and forms a growing spot where his face is hidden.
         Another young man rushes through the door behind him. “We’d better not see you around here again, or we’re calling the police!” he yells.
         A group gathers beside the gate that leads to the bed and breakfast. They watch in silence as the man sprints down the street, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
         The other man sighs, walking back inside. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back, Ma,” he says, closing the door. The drapes shut behind him. The group of onlookers slowly melds back into the streets.
         A haze coalesces over the horizon, where the trees meet the sky. It thickens as the night progresses.

* * * * *

         The blond man enters a bar a few days later. It is the type of place that one would best avoid without a Harley in the lot or the Virgin Mary tattooed onto his back. This man appears to have neither.
         The air froths with smoke and reeks of cheap alcohol and sweat. It’s like bleach to the eyes. This man, who introduced himself to the girls outside as Trevor, slips in and seats himself in the nook between the bar and the bathroom. He doesn’t order a drink. He doesn’t speak to anyone. He doesn’t even seem to notice how out of place his small, khaki-and-polo-clad body is amongst the leather and chains. He simply sits there, ignoring the intimidating looks cast his way.
         A special news report airs on the television. The room’s commotion masks what is being said, but images of trees burning and crumbling buildings fill the screen. It cuts to another scene, depicting smoke billowing down tree-lined city streets and people looking out of their windows like caged animals. Trevor recognizes it as a street in the next town over.
         He is distracted from the television when a girl named Freyja approaches him and says with a heavy Scandinavian accent, “Boy, I’d leave while you still have balls.”
         He simply smiles and thanks her, remaining seated.
         “Hey, you gonna order something, kid?” The bartender asks, eyeing him skeptically.
         Trevor stands up and approaches the counter. He nods. “What’s the cheapest drink you have?”
         “My piss,” pipes up a scrawny, unshaven man seated at the counter. He almost falls out of his seat in laughter.
         “I’ll have a Coke,” he responds, not waiting for the bartender’s response.
         The bartender furrows his brow, pouring the drink and clanking the mug heavily
upon the counter. Trevor slips him a few crumpled bills.
         “Take it,” the bartender mumbles, beginning to spit-polish the other mugs.
         Trevor doesn’t even sip his drink. He spins the straw in it for a moment before
addressing the scrawny man.
         “My name is Trevor,” he says, offering his hand.
         The other man is too busy gulping back his poison to respond. Eventually, he sets the cup down on the stool beside him. Beer drools through his whiskers.
         “Something you want?” He asks, eyeing the proffered hand.
         “I want you to hate me,” Trevor responds, a faint glimmer in his eyes.
         Freyja grins, watching him even as she clings to another man’s arm beside the billiard table.
         “The freak wants what?” A man nearby asks, looking up from his pool cue.
         “Kid, I already fucking hate you,” says the scrawny man known as Gary.
         “Good, but I am not going to take your word on that.”
         “Little boy,” says Freyja, “If you want your balls no more, come, I’ll take them off for you now. Gary is not good at it like me.” She grins widely, perhaps not so maliciously.
         “Oh, what, you don’t think I could do it, Frey’?” Gary asks.
         Freyja is watching the pool game again, stroking her man’s back.
         “Look at you,” says Trevor. “You can barely sit up straight. How could you possibly hurt me?”
         Someone at the other end vomits loudly onto the bar. The bartender runs over to bark at him, slapping the slop back onto his lap with a rag.
         “I could hurt you plenty!” the man says, rising to his feet. He’s barely over five and a half feet tall, but he’s still larger than Trevor. Trevor, as handsome as he may be, is by no means large.
         “I want you to hate me!” Trevor yells.
         “I do fucking hate you!” Gary throws his glass at him. Trevor dodges, but the glass would have missed anyways.
         “I shudder to think how many stillborn babies you have fathered!” Trevor sets down his soda and backs up in anticipation.
         “You son of a bitch!” The man screams, shoving people aside to get to Trevor.
         Trevor backs toward the door, but suddenly finds many large bodies blocking his way. They push him forwards, toward Gary, who is already ripping through the air with his fists.
         Trevor could fight. He could easily defend himself. He could just raise his arms – but he doesn’t. He takes the first hit and shrugs it off. The second hit lands in his gut, causing him to gasp for air. A third strike impacts his face. The entire time, his eyes strain to look up at his attacker. Obscenities gush from Gary’s mouth, even as blood begins to flow from Trevor’s wounds.
         His shirt is torn. His nose begins to pour. It’s probably broken again. He can feel his ribs bruising. He just sucks it in and takes the beating, staring into his assailant’s eyes. At length, the bartender pulls the crazed man away.
         “Enough! Enough! The bastard’s a wreck. Let him go suffer.”
         Gary reluctantly lays off, but Trevor still has to force his way through the crowd to reach the door. He stumbles outside and quickly runs to the back of the building. He leans against the wall, and lets his back slide down it. His blood forms patterns on the concrete.
         A few minutes later, laughter breaks out inside. He can hear the fight being reenacted, mocking him. He simply sighs. What a terrible performance. What an utter waste of time.
         Freyja walks around the corner. She looks even more lovely in the dingy alley than in the smoky tavern.
         “Hey,” she says, glancing down at him. “What’s your problem?”
         Trevor gives her a sly smile. “Whatever could you mean?”
         “In there. That was stupid. Gary’s got issues. He’d kill you.”
         “I know,” he states indifferently, standing up and brushing off his khakis. He touches his chest and flinches.
         “You want to die?” Freyja asks in disbelief.
         “No. Not really.” Trevor staggers, taking small, labored steps.
         “Would you like a ride home?
         He ignores her and begins hobbling down the alley.
         Freyja calls out to him. ”You did not come here for a drink. What were you looking for?”
         He shakes his head lightly. “I don’t know. I will let you know when I find it.”

* * * * *

         The elegantly curved streetlamps brighten the cobblestones, their auras captured like fireflies by the highly-polished surfaces of white Rolls Royces and black Porches. Fog hangs over the area, granting the moon and the aforementioned lamps an ethereal quality. A tall stone wall follows the street, overhung by well-manicured oaks. Monolithic, ivy-covered pillars mark the way to the most expensive restaurant in town.
         Le Chapdelaine is the place to be for the rich, the famous, and those mastered in the art of corporate brown-nosing. Dining here is like shaking your pockets so that everyone can hear how deep they are. Only the wealthiest individuals dare to show their faces here.
         The people passing in and out of the doorway are appropriately dressed for the social spotlight, shod in Johnston and Murphy shoes and clutching Donnie and Burke purses. One individual stands out amongst them all. Approaching in a wrinkled green shirt and a pair of worn, brown khakis, Trevor casually ascends the steps, ignoring the contemptuous looks shot his way.
         The host is visible from outside, scratching his mustache while standing behind his counter. When he glances away from the door, Trevor steps inside. He takes a single step beyond the entry mat and wipes his tennis shoes on the rich red carpeting.
         “Good evening, Sir! Welcome to…”
         The host’s words cut off when he notices Trevor’s appearance.
         “Oh. Ahem. Are you looking for directions?” The spindly host scrutinizes him through the spectacles perched at the tip of his nose.
         “No… I am certain this is the place, thank you.”
         “You, have a reservation?”
         Trevor gives the man a stern look. “Yes. Von Lier.”
         The host peruses his list for a moment, daintily lifting the top page to glance at the sheet beneath it. “Von Lier. No, I am not seeing such an entry…”
         “Oh! Wonderful! This is the second! The second time!”
         The host withdraws from the yelling, accidentally knocking a stack of business cards onto the floor. He hastily glances down at his paper again, tracing his finger over it.
         “Oh! You said Lier, did you not? Von Lier! Of course! Why, you are right there!”
The man is so sickeningly insincere that Trevor has to glance away.
         “I expect better service than you provided my wife.”
         The man slides the roster toward Trevor for him to sign.
         “Forgive me. Your wife? I do not recall.”
         Trevor prints the name and an indecipherable scribble for the signature. “You’re the pervert who felt her up in the woman’s bathroom a few weeks ago.”
         The man’s face flushes. “Forgive me, sir, but I assure you that could not have been I.”
         “Oh, I am certain that it was.” Trevor states, gesturing to just beneath his own nose. “It’s the crooked ‘stache.”
         The couple behind Trevor averts their eyes. “Maybe we should go down the street,” the young woman mumbles to her partner.
         “Sir, I am afraid that is quite simply impossible,” the host says. “I started here just three days ago.”
         Trevor hands him back the pen.
         “Your table is right behind me, beside the window.” He doesn’t even bother to glance in the direction, let alone lead him to the table. His eyes immediately move on to the couple.
         “Welcome to Le Chapdelaine! Your names, please?”
         Trevor walks by the counter. He glances down at the host’s shoes as he passes. They are not the pristine shoes of someone beginning a new job at a place such as this. No one would arrive with worn soles. Apparently, Trevor is not the only actor here. While the host is still speaking with the couple, Trevor leans over the back counter and spits on his shoe, then quickly rounds the corner.
         On any normal evening, the dining room would be filled with wine glass clinking, delicate fork biting, and deep-chested boasting. Tonight is different. The room is segregated into two distinct groups, a mob huddled into one corner, being, all told, rather noisy, and the sparser group that populates the tables themselves. There is no sound of cheer, but instead the occasional gasping “oh-my” or discordant muttering.
         Trevor quickly merges with the crowd, maneuvering his way to the front. In the corner is a small television resting on a serving stand. A few of the cooks and nearly the entire waitstaff are mixed in amongst the patrons. One of the waiters silences everyone with a finger to his lips and turns up the television’s volume. The crowd obeys, falling silent, just in time for the reporter to come on the screen.

         “This is Christine Reu reporting from the scene, where local firefighters continue their struggle to control the blaze for the second night now. Fire barriers are being laid around the city’s northern perimeter, cutting off access to Trellis Lane. Meanwhile, the inferno has already begun to engulf homes on the south end. Dozens have been lost, and the flames continue to spread unhindered.”

         The woman runs up to one of the fire officials who observes the fire wall’s construction from a safe distance. The leather-faced man squints at the camera.

         ”Excuse me, sir? What is your opinion on the priority being placed on protecting the city’s tourism, while people are losing their homes on the south side? Do you agree that your efforts are best spent here?”
         “The houses that’re burning, they’re just houses,” he rumbles. “ Trellis is the economy. I think everyone knows that. And the mayor, he’d be none too happy if his office burned down.”
         “Do you mean to imply that you would rather protect the town’s tourism than the lives of its residents?”

         Trevor turns, swimming back out of the crowd.
         “You! Mr. Lier!” The host comes stomping towards him. “You spat on my shoes! You are trying to make a fool of me!”
         “No, I prefer a challenge.”
“You are to leave right now! Right now!”
         Trevor puffs out his chest, taking a step forward.
         Freyja, the girl from the bar last week, runs up from nowhere and tugs on the cuff of the host’s arm.
         “Llewelyn! Stop! This man, I know him!”
         “I pity you!” exclaims the man, causing a few people to glance over. ”This, this, this… this vile slob! He came in here, claiming to have a reservation, which he most certainly does not! And he spat onto my shoes! It’s absolutely absurd! He is to be—“
         “Llew, I can take him aside. You let me. Trust me.”
         “I am host this evening, Freyja! I will not tolerate this ruffian in here! No longer!”
         “Listen, okay? I can take care of him. You don’t need worrying.”
         Llewelyn stands frozen in thought for a moment, before adjusting his bowtie.
         “Have it your way, miss! I’ll let this insolent stay under your watch. But! But! If word of this reaches anyone, I will have no – absolutely no hesitation pointing my finger at you!”
         “Good, Llewelyn. You have customers.”
         The man leans forward to glare at Trevor, before quickly scurrying back to his post.
         “Many apologies for the delay, madam!” he says to a portly woman, composed once more. “May I have your name, please?”
         Freyja snatches Trevor’s wrist and drags him into the second dining area, away from everyone else.
         “I didn’t know you worked here,” Trevor comments once they are out of sight. Freyja’s uniform is carefully pressed and her hair is tied back in a meticulous braid. She is the quintessence of loveliness. Far more lovely here than in a dark alleyway or a smoky tavern.
         “Just part-time,” she says, watching Llewelyn through the French doors. “Why did you spit on his shoe?”
         “Just starting a fight.”
         “Hell! With Llewelyn? Why?”
         Trevor stares at her. His eyes look long into hers. He opens his mouth to speak a few times, before the words actually come out.
         “Because I am searching for what is missing inside of me.”
         “No joke! You fight people to find who you are? You have no life!”
         Trevor shakes his head. “This is my life.”
         He closes his eyes for a moment, before continuing.
         ”I began attending acting classes a few years back. It seemed like a degree I could enjoy. Nothing warned me that I forever would lose my happiness. One day, during a session, a revelation dawned on me. My peers had something inside of them that I was lacking. I was an incomplete puzzle. I do not know where the revelation came from, but it persisted. I could not be content until I discovered what was missing. Whatever it was, though, I would not discover it through others. Experience seemed to be the only alternative.”
         “You are an actor?” she asks, tilting her head. “That is why you are so passionate.”
         “It is just my study. Not my passion.”
         “Why fight? Why not be ingenious? Or romantic? You won’t be in jail from that.”
         “Because,” he says, staring meaningfully into hers eyes, “I already have those traits. I am searching for something that I do not have. Something most people only reveal to me when they lose control. Something I only feel when I am on the verge of destruction.”
         “You are very strange,” Freyja says, smiling warmly toward him. “You search like this if you must. Carefully. Just not here.”
         A candle flickers to life in the far corner, revealing an elderly man hunched over the table in the backmost booth. He is completely bald, his hands gaunt with age, but his face still holds some of its handsomeness of youth. He sits alone at the moment, but the table is made for two. Two menus, two sets of silverware, and a rose on the opposite end of the table. He buries his face in the menu.
         “Oh!” Freyja touches her fingers to her mouth. “I forgot this room was rented,” she whispers.
         Even before she realizes it, Trevor is off in the man’s direction.
         “Trevor! Please no!”
         Trevor slips into the booth across from the gentleman and offers his hand. “Good evening. Trevor McFallen.”
         Without a hint of surprise, the man offers his hand in return, “Oliver Dean.”
His words are spoken as though someone were sleeping elsewhere in the room.
         “What brings you here?” Trevor asks of him.
         “My wife and mine – our fiftieth anniversary.”
         “Oh! That is nice.”
         Trevor remains seated. He waits for the man’s response for a while, before picking up the rose and spinning it between his fingers. The elderly man isn’t even looking at Trevor. His eyes are staring at the door. He is obviously waiting for his wife.
         “She must be a crone to be taking this long in the washroom.” Still no response. “I look forward to speaking with her,” Trevor says, edging some harshness into his tone. “I have a few things that I have been meaning to say to her face.”
         Oliver nods his head. “So do I,” he whispers.
         Trevor nods as well, before catching the unexpected remark.
         “Oh?” He asks.
         Oliver nods again.
         “I will probably see her again by our sixtieth. Can’t imagining lasting much longer than that.” A lone tear runs down the old man’s cheek, the trail glistening in the candlelight. “I haven’t missed an anniversary. Not in eight years.”
         The young man’s brow furrows for a moment.
         “This was the last place you celebrated together?”
         Oliver shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “It has always been at our home on Wren Lane. We would dine beneath the archway in her garden. She loved it there. But that is gone now. Probably, it is nothing more than ash already.”
         Such is the man’s grief that it inspires tears in Trevor’s own eyes. He reaches up and wipes them. He looks at his wet hands, before wiping them off on his pants.
         The gentleman clenches his napkin. “Rebecca,” he whimpers, covering his eyes with his fist and beginning to sob.
         “I am so sorry,” Trevor whispers.
         Mr. Dean simply waves him away.
         Trevor rises from his seat. He casts his eyes to the floor, heading for the exit.
         “Hold on, Trevor,” Freyja says, moving to comfort him, but he shrugs past her.
         “No,” he says softly. “I found it.” He passes out of sight.
         Freyja watches the elderly man suffer. Suddenly, she understands.

* * * * *

         A gentle breeze blows along Trellis lane, tumbling leaves down the streets and carrying the first breath of fresh air on its current. The sun casts its light brightly upon the world, as though making up for the days lost in shroud. Puffy clouds whisk by high above. Birds glide from one tree to the next, twittering their happy melodies. The roads are empty here. Everyone is to the south, where the sights are not so pleasant.
         These southern streets are no longer the picturesque scenes that one would find on a postcard. They now resemble a Third World country. Nary a nook remains unscathed. From the tiny starter homes on Lemon and Mulberry to the once-rich neighborhoods of Wren and Cardinal, the flames consumed without discrimination. Families wander the streets, looking at what destruction has been wrought. Amidst it all, Christine Reu stands, speaking into her microphone:

         “As you can see behind me, little remains of these once blissful neighborhoods. Relief efforts are already underway and makeshift shelters are being erected by neighboring towns.”
         “There was a single casualty in the fire. An investigation is under way to determine the identity of a man discovered amongst the debris of the Dean estate. His remains were found barricaded beneath one of the garden’s archways, surrounded by water-filled trash barrels and fire extinguishers. The man appears to have been fighting off the flames when he was crushed beneath a falling branch. It is still unknown why he was not evacuated with the rest of the locals. When Mr. Dean was asked if he knew the man, he is quoted as having called him ‘an angel searching for his wings.’ Mr. Dean declined to provide any further information…”

* * * * *

         In a run-down, third story apartment somewhere, the most lovely woman in the world, a lady with heavy Scandinavian accent and a beautiful smile, watches the local news. A tear comes to her eyes.
         “Trevor – I hope you found what you were searching for…
                   I hope you found your passion…”