Salmon Pail

Untitled Part 1

Upon waking up this morning, I did not expect to be caught on fire. A strange, and potentially final lucid thought to have, but, for reasons unknown to me, that's what leaped out of the boiling pot of information, ideas, memories, and other uncollected thoughts that is called the "brain"(specifically mine, in this case) decided to spout out at me when I did, indeed, become caught on fire. Or, rather, a fire was caught on me.

On my light mute pink cat sweater, the one I was wearing, there was fire. This was bad, I understood in the few milliseconds I had to react. This was bad, as fire is not meant to be on sweaters. Not as a literal fire, but more commonly as an emblem or a patch of some kind. Regardless, this fire was a real one.

It felt just warm for a brief moment. Then a bit too warm. Then, like a gentleman saying "Ah, yes, there it is," scorching pain. Then a flash of cold, to my surprise, cold and wet. I barely processed what was even occurring, but comprehended enough to look to my right, that same right belonging to which I had a shoulder that very recently was on fire. Rather, enflamed.

A boy—I blinked—a man stood wide-eyed, as shocked and confused as I was, maybe more. But, adding to the whole air of confusion, he was holding a small, reddish-orangish-pinkish—the word was "salmon"—bucket which was, a moment ago, I gathered, holding the water that was splashed on my then-inflamed shoulder.

The man had fairly dark skin, like a mid-autumn leaf that was the first to fall and thus began to brown first as well. His hair, short and curly and grayish—strange, I thought, given how young he looked—was well kept and clean-looking. He had a green eye and a hazel one, I was sure, but the light tricked me, and I couldn't tell which was which at any given time. His face bore wrinkles, freckles, and creases, which, in most cases, show age. But for him, it just seemed to show knowledge. Like, in some way or another he had learned more than he was "supposed to."

The gardener I had met looked like a very old person, learned in their years, put into a young person's body for some reason or another. He wore a green apron with a few pins that I couldn't quite make out what they were, and the apron itself had a white flower on it. Rather, there was no flower per se, just the outline and details of a flower sewn in with white.

He met my eyes with his own confusing, and yet altogether beautiful ones. Though, there was no shaking of metaphorical hands that normally happened when meeting someone new, no, instead there was just a silent, general idea conveyed that new people were being introduced to one another. Except, with no speech occurring and just eyes doing the, again, metaphorical, talking.

"Two things," he began, a light crack penetrating his otherwise smooth and mid-toned voice, "One..." He hesitated. It seems that he couldn't tell which of the two things he should say first. "One; is your shoulder okay? I can take you to a nearby ER if need be. And two," he paused to catch his breath, "sorry about the water."

Oddly enough, my shoulder didn't really hurt, it just felt warm. And cold. Like my senses were a canvas, and a coat of "hot" was quickly and effectively applied, only to be immediately followed by a coat somewhere between "cold" and "distinct lack of hot, that, itself, lacks a temperature."

Like heat was not quite gone, but instead muffles by a distinct lack of temperature.

I realized I had not spoken.

"No, no, I'm fine. It doesn't hurt, but instead just feels...I don't know. It's a weird feeling to try and explain," I said, less confident than I sounded.

"Ah. I have, uh. Feelings like that as well."

"Yeah, paired with my surprise about this whole situation."