METANOIA

INTO THE WILD

Driving sleep deprived was the only time Barry found Buddy to be helpful. Each time fatigue dragged his eyelids downwards; Buddy did something stupid to keep him awake. Whenever Buddy quieted down, he punched his thigh to fight sleep. The pain kept him going.

His mind was racing. One minute he was sobbing hysterically, or he twitched with a wave of paranoia, perhaps followed by a wave of anger or a manic laughter.

Barry wanted to get away, and having become an animal he instinctively drove towards the woods. He was heading towards Hocking Hills.

Breathe in, hold, release.

Barry wanted to disappear. Walk away into the darkness.

He entertained walking away from his fate as a solution. He couldn't get himself to do it. There was something about abandon that is alluring.

He pondered about walking into the wild; questioned his servitude.

He felt there had to be a merit of some sort at the end of all this pain. Pain to him seemed like a justification for all the deeds done.

He spent the night in the forest sleeping for the first time.

He avoided all the main roads and parked two miles away from the edge of Hocking Hills. He ditched his car and walked the rest of the way. He left the gun inside the car and headed deep into the forest. He took the spare tank of gas to commit suicide.

Make him talk to Lucy and Buddy. Make Buddy sound surprisingly poignant.

He fished out the last cigarette from the pack of American Spirits he pocketed from Taylor. Placed it on his lip and lit it.

This was it. He needed to go. Giving up is the grandest relief of them all.

Barry decided once again to end it all. He looked at the canister of gasoline. He sat down and tried to wrap his oversized legs about. Some residual memory of Shaolin monks burning themselves in lotus position lingered in his mind. With the canister on his lap, he carelessly unwound the cap. Since the canister was tilted sideways, about a cup of gasoline spilled on his left hand. He barely registered this.

He was collecting himself to pour the gasoline over his head.

That's when he felt it.

First, it was the warmth.

Then it was Lucy calling it out.

"Shit, Barry; you are on FIRE."

Breathe in, hold, release.

He looked down and saw his left paw in flames.

A small amount of ashes from his final cigarette was enough to do the trick.

Barry's hand was on fire before he could pour the gasoline over his head.

The pain surged into his slothy mind, as the instinctive self-preservation - against his will - kicked in. Barry stood up as he balanced the canister to prevent it from spilling. He was momentarily surprised that was his initial reaction.

He shook his hand a few times to see if he could put out the flame.

That's when he registered the full extension of the pain.

He was livid as he shook his fist violently; he started slapping the floor. Each slap grabbed a bit of dirt as he left behind a splatter of burning blood. He pulled out his flip-flop and started slapping his flaming fist. When that wasn't enough, he picked up a larger stone and used that instead in panic.

His fingers snapped under the rock as the flames died out bit by bit.

Breathe in, hold, release.

Fuck Yoga.