Burnt Black

Chapter 4

My dad had three different kinds of cereal out on the counter when I came downstairs. "Hey, Hal. Hungry?" he asked, before grinning at the accidental alliteration.

"No," I told him. Honestly, I wasn't. My stomach was churning so much that I had had a hard time convincing myself to get out of bed, though eventually my sense of responsibility won out. I couldn't hide from my problems. My dad was frowning at me. "I mean, Aiden and I are going out for breakfast. Assuming that's okay," I added, remembering what firm believers my parents were in a healthy breakfast.

"Of course it is," my dad nodded, and went back to his own bowl of cereal.

"Are you not working today?" I asked, noticing the late time.

"Just taking the morning off," he answered casually. My dad worked for himself, and as a result, his hours were up to him. It was nice. I liked it when he was home, even if we didn't spend much time together. It always just felt better knowing our house was full.

Around the corner, I heard the toilet flush, and a few moments later my mother wandered into the kitchen, still in her pajamas. "Are you going somewhere?" She asked immediately, taking in the sight of me.

I looked a lot like my dad. I had inherited his brown, unruly waves of hair, and his small nose, and tall, slender frame. But I had my mom's blue eyes, and sharp chin, and I had a habit of copying her facial expressions. Of course, it was not my genetics that she was noticing, now. It was my hair, twisted ever-so-perfectly into a side braid, the small purse at my side, and the flip flops on my feet.

"I'm going out for breakfast with Aiden," I told her.

"And then what?"

"We'll probably go for a walk."

She glanced at my dad, who was engulfed in his bowl of cereal and the newspaper he had placed in front of him, and then turned back to look at me carefully. My parents had no problem with Aiden. They knew he looked like more trouble than he really was. He was a good kid, a polite kid. However, they were never quite sure about aimless wandering across town, because there was no telling what kind of trouble you could get into with no destination and no fast means of escape.

Finally, she said, "You've got your phone?" I nodded. "Okay. See you later, then."

The warmth immediately welcomed me as I stepped out the door. The sun was shining brightly, the clouds were few and far between, and the breeze was just right. In short, it was a glorious day.

I made my way down the street. First I passed the child's footprints that were pressed into the pavement about half a block down from my house. I often wondered who left them there, and it seemed odd to me that the shoes that had made them had probably long since been outgrown and thrown out. The footprints, contrary to all logic, felt like a part of my history; as much a part of the town as the historic buildings on main street. Then, another block down, the old house that seemed far too tiny and rundown to live in, with flowers and bushes growing wildly over the lawn, all hidden behind a chain link fence. This house was another source of mystery. No one I knew had any clue as to who lived there, or even if someone lived there. Never, to my knowledge, had there even been a car parked in front of it. Legends ran as rampant as the garden in front of it. Nice rumours, like an old widow or widower with a cat or two to keep them company. Then, there were the dark rumours, such as a hideout for a local drug cartel. None of them had any evidence, of course, and it was more likely that the house was empty. And yet, it was another mystery; another piece of history.

Churches, I've heard, are made up of people, and not the buildings themselves, but towns, I think, are the opposite. They're the sum of their structures and streetlights, more so than the citizens who pass through them. We're just witnesses to the things that have happened, and the stories that have been built. After all, the fire pit lasts longer than the fire.