Pyro

Chapter 6

The ambulance rushed him off shortly after the gunshots rang out in the grand hall. Father, sadly, hadn't kicked the bucket on the spot. I just hoped his chances of survival were slim. 

I fingered the edge of the rug, staring into the empty fireplace. I instinctively snapped my fingers and a warm flame flickered to life, engulfing the wood. The crackle and hiss of the fire gave me satisfaction, and I leaned against the couch, relishing in its warmth.

With the curtains drawn and the early morning rays barred out, the only source of  light in the living room was my fire. It battled away the inky darkness and flickered, casting the room in momentary blackness.

In that moment, the door groaned open, allowing artificial light to filter in and casting an elongated shadow in the doorway. I craned my head up.

It was mother. 

Sparing me any small talk, she said, "He survived the surgery."

Damn. 

A bitter disappointment chomped at my insides, but I kept my face neutral. Leaving no trace of my inner rage and turmoil, I asked, "Are you going to visit him?" noting her starchy pantsuit.

Her eyes crinkled in sourness. "No," she spat, disgusted. "I've had the night to sleep on it, and I'm going to see a lawyer. See if I can't divorce him. And I'll make sure he can't worm his way out of a prison sentence."

A smile formed on my somber lips. "Good. I'm glad." Instead of sulking or ruminating endlessly in her room, she was finally taking initiative. 

She sighed heavily, rubbing at her tired eyes. I guessed that, from the lack of enervation in her movements and the weary set to shoulders, she hadn't gotten much rest.

Then again, who could after what happened last night?

Actually, I could. For the first time in a long time, I drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

"I'll be back later." She spun on her heels, shoes clicking on the floor, but paused midway. She shoved her hands in her pockets, clearly searching for something. Her fingers grasped whatever she was looking for and she pulled it out.

She strode up to me and expectantly held out a battered slip of paper.

I took it, unfolding the paper. As I gave it a cursory once-over, mother said, "Henry, you're eighteen now. You can make your own decisions."

I folded the paper back on its creases and locked eyes with my mother. Her unfocused eyes seemed lost; distant, almost. Her chocolate brown hair, pinned in a taut bun, glinted in the firelight. Her stiffness and aloof demeanor transformed her into a cold statue. "As much as I'd like you to stay... I understand if you want to leave. If I were you, I'd probably leave too." 

I stood on my feet, the hardwood floor creaking under my weight. "Mom..." I trailed off.

She silenced me with a wave of her hand. "I don't want to impact your decision. Whatever you chose, you're still my son. My only son. And no matter what you do, Henry, I'll support you. Always."

She nodded and began to saunter off when I blurted, "I'm sorry." God, everything was falling apart: crumbling before my very eyes.

First, Rebecca.

Then, finding Garret's killer who didn't even have the audacity to do us all a favor and off himself.

And now, if I left, mother would be all alone. Alone in a haunted house with wandering, wailing ghosts. Ghosts of the past: ghosts of what could have been: ghosts of what should have been.