A Road Colored Red

A-Frame homes, with coal black shutters and brilliantly white skin dressed the neighborhood that was nestled against an evergreen background of rolling hills. Within those rolling hills, valleys held shallow ponds which were given birth to by late night torrential rains. During hot summers they were places to swim, long harsh winters a place to skate, and still, windless nights the place to skip rocks across glass like surfaces.
Ashley’s home, the A-Frame with green shutters, not black, lay at the very end of the circular suburban utopia. Away from the rest of the normal neighborhood noises, away from laughing children, and barking dogs. Far enough so that no one could hear the screams, the begging, the crying, as well as the silence. The distance caused a muffling effect against the hills, absorbing the sound like ink on paper.
Ashley pulled the hoodie methodically around his thick, coarse hair that never had a straight path but simply went everywhere if the humidity was right. His silver eyes were magnified beneath the three times hand me down horned frames that gave him sight but always slipped down his small, rounded, freckled nose. They weren’t just out of style they were dinosauric as his step-mother joked quite often from her permanent place on the couch covered in magazines, empty candy wrappers and pill bottles. And despite her verbal abuse of everything about him, he took care of her, feeding her, giving her medication when needed just to sway his Dad’s fists.
He checked the sink for any dishes, spots on the counters, spent toast crumbs or rings left by the condensation of orange juice glasses. He counted off the reasons that would haunt him after school on both hands, making a mental check list of anything and everything that would earn him a bruise, then headed out the door, locking it behind him. Against the chilly Fall air, he started on his two block walk. School was the only kind of routine that seemed to never change, to the bus stop at 7:30, first period, second, third, fourth, fifth, lunch, sixth, seventh, and then back home again to return to a place where anything could happen at any time. He couldn’t say he liked school but it was the most solid foundation in his life.

While sitting in class, his mind wandered, not to anything very extravagant but he would imagine that he lived in the mansion that sat at the head of the hill from his neighborhood. He’d worked on this fantasy since he was seven, after his real mother died, always adding things to it in his mind. The house was at the very top of the rolling hills, it was the house that was dubbed the name ‘the governor’s house’ even though that wasn’t true. The house was a sturdy brick structure, safe from any flooding, and a lawn so perfectly kept that it looked almost fake. He would imagine what the inside would look like and the people inside. No screaming, or crying, all the things that held his own life together could possibly take place in such a beautiful home. There was probably a mom that cooked great dinners, always there when you got home from school, a father that would never raise a hand but would put an arm around him instead. Mother’s didn’t die in this house, and no one cared about spots or stains on the kitchen floor because a wide, smiling maid with kind eyes would shake her head and say, “I’ll get that,”
His eyes strayed from the bright window, back to the school room with the cloudy chalkboard and disinfected smelling desks. He didn’t pay attention, especially in History class, because he was too caught up in his own history. He didn’t really care about who started this country nor did he care about their sacrifice, it wasn’t anything that could help him now, so who cared. His history consisted of constant worries, so many worries that his stomach never unclenched. His good memories were thin as a wedding veil. His mother’s last words to him when Chemo stopped working were like a well memorized poem. He’d never forget her translucent like hands caressing his face, her sickly milky eyes that were sleepy and ready to leave, her voice was a whisper telling him to,
“Be brave, I know he doesn’t say it much…but your father loves you,” her delicate hand fell limp like a spent butterfly.
The nurses shuffled him out of the room; being only seven they thought it would be too much was his guess. He had waited outside, tears running down his cheeks still full of baby fat. His dad appeared from nowhere, the nurses giving him a call when the flat line screamed through the air. He had been at the hospital very little, only a couple times a week, a neighbor had been kind enough to give Ashley rides to spend time with his Mother as her last days began to dwindle. When his dad arrived at the hospital he looked disheveled but not for the reason that one would think. His clothes were in disarray reeking of some cheap perfume that smelled of gladiolas, his face glistening with spent sweat, and his hair matted on all sides. A look foreign to Ashley everything about his dad was perfection; he treated an un-tucked shirt like a sin. He never acknowledged his son, simply glided into the hospital room where she now lay dead. Not more than a couple minutes he emerged, closing the door gently behind him as if it would be too loud and wake her up. Ashley had stood up quickly, ready for the embrace he believed he deserved even with their unsteady relationship but instead his father slapped him, hard, causing an almost instantaneous welt. He yelped in contest, his crying stopped as quickly as the slap had arrived.
“Stop your crying, that never helps anything. She’s gone, and I’ve got you to deal with,” his dad yanked him forward by the arm, and that was what life became. His history began, and his mother’s gentle persuasive tone that kept the rising fist was gone.

         He squeezed between bodies that swelled up the school hallway, everyone rushing to their lockers to get books for the next class. Pink, blue and yellow streamers hung precariously down from the checkered patterned ceiling. Flyers were taped up everywhere reminding everyone that a dance was being held that week. “Twilight Ball” was written on countless banners dressed in hunks of glitter. More than likely the girls came up with the name because of the stupid movies that had dominated most conversations at long lunch tables where he didn’t belong. But being the kid that never really talked to anyone, the one that was dressed in striped sweaters two sizes too big, and Buddy Holly glasses, he wasn’t too concerned about any of it. The less time in life he was noticed the better.
He dug through his locker searching for his Chemistry book for the next period when he heard the metallic knock of a soft fist on the door next to his ear. So startled he nearly lost his glasses which gave the girl responsible for the knocking a good giggle.
         “Hey Ash, you wouldn’t have the notes for yesterday’s Biology class would you?”Marilyn Martin asked. She had been a lovely blur of wanting, at least since 3rd grade. She was the first one to ask “What did you do to your face?” or the most coveted of all questions “Are you alright?”
He tried not to blink his eyes too much since they looked like bug eyes behind the thick glasses, his thin, long fingers of both hands jutted into his jean pockets out of nervous habit.
“I, uh, yeah I do, hold on a sec,” he gave a smile despite his usual distrust of people and searched for the notes. She had always been one of his unrealistic desires, like the mansion on the hill, it wasn’t as if she was a cheerleader, highly popular or anything like that but to him she was strikingly beautiful and worthy of such popularity. She had pale blue eyes that gave a lazy, but comfortable feel to her stare; her hair was always long and straight resting about her shoulders. She didn’t wear makeup, as if she needed too, and she was slightly an outsider like himself. Her understanding of his home life was stemmed from her own, her parents were split however. When such conversations came up about mothers, he found out her real mom had moved to Arizona, a new boyfriend, and he was more important than bringing up a daughter apparently, Marilyn had concluded. She only heard from her with generic postcards with burning orange sunsets, and hills she didn’t recognize. Her Dad remarried to a woman that was not fond of children, another reminder of her small, insignificant existence. There had been more than one time that he’d heard her crying alone just outside during lunch, to avoid those who would question. Not that he was happy with her touch with dysfunction, but it was nice to know he wasn’t the only one that felt so alone at home.
She was the only girl in the school that seemed to look upon him without judgment, without resentment for his ‘not of the norm’ look that he relied on. A look that made him unnoticeable. Not to mention she was the only one that knew the details of his home situation, her step-mom and his step-mom being old schoolmates that haunted the same bingo hall. His step-mother loved to run her mouth, if the alcohol level in her bloodstream was the right amount; he always came into the conversation. Not the physical abuse, that she was careful of since that could bring forth child services, but his dad’s fervent dislike of him…she even made a point to make jokes. “I’m the most important thing in his life!” she would say in a sing songy voice. So Marilyn never had a look of judgment, hardly a look of pity, but she did notice Ashley and that was enough for him.
“So are you going to the dance this Friday?” she asked her eyes brighter than usual today.
“I hadn’t really thought of it,” he replied, it hadn’t been a part of his mental checklist, usually he was so caught up in what he shouldn’t do, he couldn’t remember what he wanted to do.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go with me,” she gave a smile again that made his mind a little cloudy.
“Me? Why?” he couldn’t help but ask.
“I don’t know, thought we’d shake things up a bit, besides it’s freshman year, it’s like our first official dance we have to go right?” she spat as if the question made her breathless.
Before his analyzing of every little detail had room to take charge he breathed out quite quickly, “Yes, what time?”
“It starts at seven you could always meet me at my place, I’m not too far from your house, my dad can take us,” she said, her fingers twisting at the strings of the hood of her jacket.
“Yeah, only a few blocks I can ride my bike no problem,” he found himself actually smiling now, an action so normal it felt wrong.
“Well, I’ll see you Friday then,” she gave his hand a squeeze before resting them back to her hips.
“Friday,” he nodded, relishing the warmth she left behind on the hollow of his wrist.


“What’s this bout you going to a dance I hear?” his step-mother’s drunk slur emerged from the musty air of the living room strewn with TV guides, hiding the beige colored carpet and worn out rug.
It was amazing how fast news traveled, even for a household that was ostracized by the rest of the community, and Ashley had to sigh in annoyance. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday was Bingo night, so he was sure that’s where she got the info. He was second guessing the date the entire way home, his mind battling with him (a voice that was usually a scratchy version of his step-mom’s) on whether he should keep it or not. “Let’s shake things up,” as Mary had put it. What that really meant to Ashley anyway was “We’ll prove to the bullies that you’re not listening to all the talk that you’re gay”
This would be the ultimate test, how much Lois, his step-mother, would badger him. It wasn’t as if he weren’t use to it, after his Mother died anyway, it could have been anything that came to her mind to criticize. A won spelling bee would be ‘an error by the teacher’, a piece of art work displayed in the hallway was to merely make him feel less like the retard that he was, in her words, a fall off his bike was his “Own damn clumsiness”. In fact Lois made it her mission in her very dull existence to say quite frequently with malice, “I don’t have the foggiest idea how your mom put up with you,” Ashley would have to swallow the anger, and say “Yes, you’re probably right,” Because deep down he wondered if there was a punishment undiscovered, perhaps from a past life that he wasn’t aware of, and that he deserved everything he got.
“You know it’ll be a disaster, that Mary chick is too cute for you,” she belched, making his stomach churn as he handed her a bowl of soup on the couch where she never moved.
“Don’t Lois, she asked me, I didn’t ask her,”
“Well, it’s a trick then huh, isn’t it? Of course it is,” she took the soup, the contents of the maroon colored bowl sloshing onto her housecoat that smelled thickly of gladiolas and that had likely not left her chubby body since early that morning.
“A trick, yes,” he happily replied, he didn’t want to fight with her because that would only result in a fight with his Dad as soon as he walked in the door from work. Lois had a nasty habit of acting like a five year old that had been wronged on the play ground. If she were even the slightest offended by Ashley she would make extravagant claim of disrespect or even a physical altercation just too illicit a dramatic scene.
He had been eight, playing quietly with his Hotwheels on the rug in the living room that was circular, like a make-believe road, he had already learned it was smarter to be seen not heard as the time piled up between his mom’s death and now. Lois, in those days was thinner, awoke from one of her many drug induced naps she stumbled into the living room where he played. She quite squarely stepped on one of the tiny cars, this one a purple corvette. She yelped staggering backwards into the wall behind her. Ashley had stood up frightened that she may have hurt herself, and with perfect timing his father came through the garage door like every day, tossed his keys and called out his new wife’s name.
“Lois!” he yelled, coming to her side, helping her up from the floor, “What happened!”
“That little shit pushed me, I was hardly awake, and he pushed me just because I asked him to clean up this mess!” she said in a perfect child-like tone.
“What’s the matter with you?” Tracy growled, charging.
He had already achieved the knack of wrenching Ashley up from the floor by one arm, his arm nearly dislocating with screaming muscles. It would start with him slapping his backside, hard, open palmed slaps until Ashley cried and begged for it to stop. This time he was tossed to the floor, atop of his little metal cars, and received a kick to his small stomach with a leather tipped shoe. His step-mother gleaming, behind his father with the red face flushed with an odd sense of satisfaction. That incident had landed him in the hospital. It only took his parents three days to notice he couldn’t walk and had trouble breathing.  His father never made the move for the hospital until Lois said, “Might as well take’em, after all an injured mule isn’t worth anybody anything,”
And that was the first time he was branded as ‘clumsy’, and the doctor, a good friend of the family, ate up the lies like candy.
So it was easy to say that every time Ashley received a new bruise she seemed to smile with glee, since that particular incident he always stayed silent. It was just easier that way.


After making sure his step-mother was well taken care of and he left her snoozing loudly on the couch, Ashley returned to the kitchen to make sure that it was clean before his Dad returned home from work. While scrubbing the glass stovetop he thought again about Marilyn and what it would be like to actually attend a school function. The last one he had actually participated in was when he was the troll under the bridge in a 1st grade play, his mother cheering him on the crowd. She was like a shining beacon in her topaz colored dress making her flawless skin almost glow.  His dad hadn’t been there that night, he now remembered; in fact many nights he was missing, there were days where he never saw him at all. What he did remember in the days before his mom’s diagnosis was the loud voices, shouts of denial, then the slamming of a door. His mother’s eyes had begun to sink, dark circles colored her creamy flesh, and it wasn’t the cancer that had done that.
He was already worried about what he would wear what he would say and he was suddenly aware that he didn’t know how to dance. He would have to do a fair amount of research on YouTube before the event. Something else strange was that he was excited, for the first time in a long time. He could feel normal, part of something that wasn’t just a safe routine. He could be a part of companionship, something he so sorely craved.
So caught up in his thoughts he didn’t hear the garage door open and his Dad’s booming  voice appeared behind him like a foggy mist, “You get your mother taken care of?”
Ashley jumped, his eyes even wider behind his glasses, “D-Dad I didn’t see you, yes, yes I took care of her an hour ago she’s already asleep,” he replied quickly.
Tracy wasn’t a large man, but to Ashley only being fifteen and still not hitting his growth spurt, he seemed as tall as a mountain. He had the same steel colored eyes as his son, but did not wear glasses; the suits he wore looked that of an FBI agent, not the small town cop that he was, as well as his perfectly molded graying brown hair. He carried himself as if he were always prepared for a fight, the tiny wrinkles of flesh fell like a waterfall on his forehead. They had grown with age with every frown, and every glare he delivered. Ashley believed his rage was aging him faster than someone with a good head on their shoulders would.
“Why are you so nervous?” Tracy asked.
Ashley swallowed, “No, reason, you just startled me a little, it’s only 5:45,”
“What were you planning to do with those 15 minutes I wasn’t home, huh? What are you up too?” he stabbed him in the chest with a thick finger.
“Nothing, sir, I swear,” he readied himself for the inevitable, his heart hammering in his ears, “I swear,”
Smack! And Ashley was holding his face, the reddened flesh against his palm felt feverishly hot, he kept his head bowed, hoping that the one strike would be enough to satisfy his Dad, “I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper.
Ashley’s eyes cut up for a moment only to catch the edge of the left fist instead of the right, not open palm like usual but full on fist. This knocked him to the floor, at the very least the corner next to the cabinet that held cleaning products would allow him more coverage. He spat blood into his hand, not wanting to swallow the iron as the taste caused an equally strong sense of nausea. He would hit my face, Ashley thought to himself, just another reason for people to gawk, to wonder with wide eyes, but never ask.
Tracy smiled a wide toothy grin, rubbing his right fist like he’d won a fight, “I swear, you just love to piss me off,” he tossed his keys from his pocket to the kitchen counter with a loud rattle, “Get your ass upstairs, I’m already sick of looking at you,”


Friday couldn’t have come fast enough, it was after class and Ashley was in a hurry to get home to tend to his chores when he was cut off on the sidewalk by three large boys, all wearing jerseys as if they were all one in the same, “Where ya going little girl?”
Ashley merely scoffed, intending to keep walking, “Did you come up with that all by yourself?” he managed to squeak out.
“You know it’s a joke right? A prank to see if little Ashley will cry,” and the large boy that looked much older than fifteen rubbed at his eyes in a mocking way, this of course sent roars of laughter from the other two equally large ‘children’.
Ashley swung his back pack full of books at the large boys’ head knocking him to the ground, the other two boys jumped in like a chorus pummeling Ashley’s head to the ground. All he could think of was at least he knocked one of them down, and that was the last swing he was able to make.
“Hey!” a voice appeared from behind them, it was Principal Shepherd, waving a yellow notebook, “Hey, stop it right now!”
One of the boys gave Ashley’s gut a last kick, before whispering, “Show up at that dance, just try it, and you’ll get worse then this you little faggot,”
With that last threat they all took off running behind the head bully, one of the many bullies Ashley had dealt with all his life, in fact he had lost track of who was who, they seemed to all melt together into one face.
Ashley took a moment to catch his breath, rolling on the ground waiting for that breath to come. The Principals’ voice was getting closer, and taking on the tone of his father’s, that made his heart begin to beat faster, also making him leap up from the ground. He made the mistake of turning his head in perfect identification profile, so now the Principal was only shouting ‘his’ name as the other three ran off down the side walk. Ashley followed suit, managing to salvage his backpack from the ground before the man could grab his collar. More threats ensued, “I know your Dad, Ashley, I’m calling him now!”

Ashley retreated quickly to the upstairs bathroom, snot, blood and tears running down his face. The tears had come later as he ran home as fast as he could. It was already 5:50 his watch read as he splashed water over his face to send the blood down the drain. He felt around the bridge of his nose and was relieved to feel that it didn’t seem broken. He kneeled down onto the floor, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink to gather his thoughts, if only for a moment. But the slamming of the door, that shook the floor above it, rattled Ashley away from his thoughts.
“Ashley! Get your ass down here!” the scream reverberated in his chest like a very loud bell.
Ashley wiped his face with a towel, and slowly and carefully made his way down the stairwell that led into the kitchen.
“What’s this I hear about you starting a fight?” Tracy began by tossing his soft leather briefcase to the floor with an intended loud thump.
“I didn’t start anything,” Ashley found himself growling, “I was defending myself,”
“That’s not what I hear; I got a call from the school during work. I had to stop said work and drive down there and straighten it out to keep you from getting expelled. You gonna replenish the income I lost today? Hmm?” he said, already moving forward, “Not to mention, it doesn’t even look like you won, that part doesn’t surprise me a bit. Explain,” and he shoved his son, whose chest was heaving.
“I told you, I was defending myself, they said that Marilyn only asked me to the dance as a joke, you would have done the same,” he was explaining and not sure why.
“Now I know you’re lying!” Tracy laughed, shaking his head, making his hair fall in disarray that made him look disheveled which was much scarier than his usual neat and perfect state.  “You and a girl, what a joke!”
“It’s true, it’s Marilyn Martin, ask Lois,”
“Don’t lie to me,” Tracy snapped, slapping Ashley so fast he hardly saw it coming therefore was he was not prepared to guard his face, his nose began flowing blood faster than it had with the punch from yesterday.
“I’m not lying!” Ashley screamed, wiping away the blood and trying to see through his now watery vision.
How this had escalated so fast he wasn’t sure, but then again he’d never been in any real trouble at school, there were no phone calls from the principal waiting for his dad at home at the end of the day. That constant need to be perfect was the catalyst to any rising fist, so he always tried to maintain perfect grades, and never responded to bullying even though it was a daily battle.
“Get up to your room….now,” Tracy said gritting his teeth, “We’ll deal with this later, and I mean it. Do you understand?” he popped Ashley’s eyes forward with a fat knuckle under the chin, “And you’re not going anywhere with that girl,”
“Yes I am” he breathed evenly, his eyes uncharacteristically locked with his dad’s like a vice.
“What did you say?” Tracy gave him another push that sent his back against the wall.
“Just give me a reason Dad, give me a reason,” he begged, his hands up like a gangster might do, fingers wiggling in the air to egg him on.
“You really wanna do this? Because you lost a fight to a couple of boys, you don’t wanna play with me,” he began rolling up his sleeves methodically, there was a note to his voice that was completely new, it was mingled with surprise and an odd sense of a challenge.
All his years in this house, although he never used them, he knew exactly which buttons to push, “What are you waiting for faggot,” he said, the afternoon reeling into the present as he mimicked the large boys’ words. A word he would have never spat, but suddenly now it was floating in the air above his head, his heart had smartly arrived in his ears again. No going back now.
And his wish was granted with his Dad grabbing him by the collar and tossing him across the kitchen. His head nearly bounced off the sink full of dishes as the drainer crashed to the floor scattering the china in a million pieces. He kept coming, like pistons going up and down in an engine, no stopping it, no words, there wasn’t anything left to say. Again and again his thick fists came down like lead hammers, hitting bone, cracking his nose making his vision close but out of reach.
“I’m the only one you can win a fight with Dad, a kid,” he croaked, spatting blood on the floor, staining the sparkling white linoleum.
Unexpectedly Tracy’s fingers were tight and fast around his son’s pale throat, “Apologize, now,” he seethed, bits of spittle flying out like grease from a hot griddle.
“Fuck off,” he gasped, with the small release of pressure, his own hands gripping around the fists at his windpipe. He wanted this final confrontation; he was done, done with it all. Just make it quick, God, he begged, just let it be done. He found himself reaching behind him, into the cold, spotless, steel sink unconsciously, maybe out of habit of his body wanting life or the little voice of his mother whispering ‘stop’.
Arriving too late in his Dad’s vision came an iron skillet, the kind that weighed several pounds, landing squarely against the side of his head in a surprisingly heavy thud. Right on his temple. Both fell to the floor, Tracy silent, Ashley gasping for breath and writhing on the once spotless kitchen floor glittered with his own blood. He stood deathly still for a moment playing dead, afraid to move. After regaining his ability to breathe, he stood hovering over the still form of his Father. Like one would rip a band aid off of delicate flesh he dove down with two fingers to check for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Oh, Christ…Oh Christ, oh Christ…” he began gasping, he pushed himself back against the kitchen cabinets, and they clattered loudly behind him. He stared blankly at the quietness, the very loud silence. His abuser dead, no longer looking like the looming figure he’d always known. He somehow looked smaller, weaker, not moving, no creased brow, nothing. They, the police, his father’s friends wouldn’t understand, he now realized. A decorated cop, a man that had raised his motherless son, they didn’t know, they had never been even slightly aware. What will happen to me now? Ashley’s thoughts began to fall back on track from the shock.
He ran into the living room, both hands on the frame of the wall to balance himself, his step-mother gone, perhaps she had never been home at all. Friday meant Bingo. Back into the kitchen he looked at what he had done. His heart thumping painfully. His stomach doing flip flops. He couldn’t move. He began clutching at his head, pulling at his dark hair in a panic. “No, no, no,” his future of prison began to reel. No one will believe me, he thought frantically.
But as suddenly as the panic rose it dispersed. A blanket of warmth ran over his body like comfortable shower water. Dead. He’s dead. I’ll run away.

He was up the stairs, two at a time, and ignoring the blood and bruises on his face for a moment. But then he thought twice and raced into the bathroom, splashing the hot water onto his face, rubbing his face clean despite the excruciating pain of his possibly broken nose. He avoided the mirror, no sense in looking. He wasn’t sure why but the first thing he grabbed was his tooth brush. He hurried down the hallway to his tiny bedroom. He pried up the loose board behind his book case and snatched up the cash he’d been saving for really nothing at all. He grabbed his school back pack emptying out the books, pencils, and notes and piled in clothes, his passport, his wallet, and money, anything he could think of really. A picture of his mother, her kind eyes shining through the glossy finish with what he hoped would be pride. Or at the very least understanding. He looked out the third-story window, as if police cars would arrive on their brown lawn with premonition of what had just occurred.
Downstairs again he went into the kitchen, merely glancing at ‘the body’, and grabbed the blue and pink flower corsage from the refrigerator. His heart was no longer a pounding but it was a lovely steady pumping of blood that allowed him to toss his bag on the front lawn. He searched the garage for the gasoline, everything was carefully labeled alphabetically so it didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. He returned to the kitchen with the large candy apple red gas can. He started at the top of the house, running a long, wet trail of gasoline from the master bedroom where the horrors in his life slept, down the hard wood stairs lined with his Dad’s accomplishments with the force, his graduation photos from the academy, he and Lois’s wedding pictures. He threw a splash of gasoline at those with an alien thrill.
He walked through the living room, around the blue sunk-in couch, around the television, around the rug where his once-upon a time make believe road to nowhere used to be and finally the kitchen. His blood looked like speckles of lost paint on the floor now as they had dried, but he avoided stepping in them anyway. He never even paused as he doused the still body of his abuser with the sharp smell of gas, his dad’s glassy silver eyes staring up into nothingness with an eerily lack of movement. He shook his head to derail the spinning thoughts as he trailed the gasoline outside in a perfectly fine line that his father would appreciate.
He stopped, taking one look at the house the green shutters that mimicked outstretched arms in the dark.  He took out a box of matches, lighting four at a time they flickered with his shaking hands, he let them drop into the stream. The colors arose in purples and oranges, the colors of sunsets. It made a beautiful, luminous beeline into the house, and like glorious fountain fireworks that made a daylight kind of light, each window revealed the fire’s arrival.
He didn’t take much time to appreciate the significance of his work or the repercussions; he just knew that it was nearly seven o’clock and the last bus out of town would be leaving in forty-five minutes, leaving him not very much time for what he needed to get done before he disappeared.

He arrived at her house, on time if he was going. He set his bag and bike to the soft grass. Her dad’s jet black truck sat in the driveway. He took the corsage from his backpack, it was a little wilted with the ride it made in the back-pack and he pedaling in fast, breathless strides down the suburbia sidewalk. He saw shadows flickering behind the curtained window, he carefully but quickly left the flower to the cement steps and ran back to his bike.
The bus station was nearly empty, perhaps four or five people waiting for the seven o’clock, he bought his ticket just in time, and readied to board the large bus with the thin Greyhound pasted on the outside of the tin can looking vehicle. He constantly looked over his shoulder, sitting on the grated bus bench, half expecting his chubby step-mother to arrive, seething, with her hair in curlers hanging from loose, graying, fake blonde hair like Medusa, screaming at what he had done. But no, she never arrived.
The bus made a hissing noise ready to move out, he dove in through the small door and found a seat in the back. He pulled his green and black checkered hoodie over his bruised face and pushed open the window next to his seat, the autumn air coming in with a gust, providing a quick smell of home before smoke infiltrated his nostrils. As the bus pulled away from the curb, making its way out onto the vastness of the highway, Ashley could hear the roar of sirens, and in the distance, against the bright evergreen hills. The colors of Fall flickered against the dark sky like a choreographed dance with the swaying trees as the wind picked up.
Ashley smiled, a smile that was birthed from a man-made darkness, he took a deep inhale of the air, sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He no longer imagined the mansion; he envisioned his father’s corpse curling up with the surge of heat, turning to ashes.