Fire

By Andrew Tran     

As the flames danced in the fireplace, Hanson groaned as he touched the steel clasp that was constricted around his ankle. A bruise jutted out over the steel. Blisters and scrapes peppered his skin. His ankle was killing him. He peered down at the bruise and sighed; it was scorching in the kitchen. And a silence permeated inside. Hanson rose from the floor and leaned closer to the flames and turned a single coal over the bed of coals in the massive brick fireplace. He sighed, his hand shaking and burning from holding the hot iron. It was a small weight in his hand. When he touched his belly button, his stomach knotted. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in three days. He looked over to the left of the fireplace and stared at the door of the inventory: biscuits, carrots, onions, eggs, dried orange peels, honey; etc. The door was locked. And he never tasted the food. It was 2029 and every day seemed to drag on. He was 25 years old and a prisoner. Hanson backed away from the rising fire, as it thickened with warmth. He smiled, wryly. He was used to the raging heat, and though at times he despised its warmth, it was still warmth. On lonely nights, such as this one, he craved the fire. A faint light bounced off his face. Hanson turned around. Moonlight was streaming through the window. He uncrossed his legs, stood up, and walked over to the window. His hard face softened. 

Outside, in the wilderness, there was freedom. The window provided him with access to that free life, one that he knew he would never touch. He stepped forward. The clasp had a long and winding chain and that chain linked around his ankle—bolted to the brick wall of the fireplace. The chain snaked across the floor, like a serpent twisting and turning left and right. As he crept with each footstep, the clasp chafed against his skin. Red blisters and sores popped out beneath the metal. He moaned. When he reached the pane, Hanson inhaled, then held in his breath. He listened. The dogs were yelping. The horses were snoring. The crickets were crooning. Hanson turned back to the window. The rolling hills of the Estate were spread out wide and far, leading to a looming forest. The trees towered over the property like columns except these trees leaned to the left, and had nooks and crannies within them. Crushed leaves were spread across the ground like the remains of his ancestors. 

Hanson watched a deer grate its antlers against a cypress. Two foxes were circling each other, in preparation for mating. And three cats were lapping milk from a tin can out by the stone partition. Hanson cupped his face with his hands, feeling the dirt and filth on his cheeks. He listened. A meandering stream was coursing through the meadow behind the hills. Water hit the jagged rocks and the stones sitting in the stream. 

In his mind, he tasted the water.

The fire was still burning in the fireplace. Hanson walked on his hands and knees. When he reached the fire, the flames rose higher. He leaned to the right and picked up a long, stubby branch. The bark felt coarse in his hand. A sweltering heat grew within the kitchen while Hanson reached forward and poked a coal with the branch. A few sparks caught onto the rough wooden tip. He watched the sparks turn into flames. And then, he stared as the flames burned the wood. Hanson stood up and raised the burning branch. A plume of smoke bloomed from the top of the branch. Behind him, the fire burned. Hanson lowered the branch to chest level and took a step towards the window. In the glass, his reflection gazed back at him. And then, the fire burned stronger and brighter. Once again, he lifted the flaming branch in the air. He torched the window frame with the branch and watched as the flames ate away the wood. 

Hanson smiled and watched the fire burn down everything.