Fumes

FUMES

He always found the sound of seagulls disconcerting so far inland. They were wheeling and circling outside, beyond the dark and heavy curtains that were pulled into an overlapping embrace to allow no light, no view of the outside world.
Dean was worried about prying eyes. He sat before his newspaper smothered desk with the five assorted bottles before him, between him and the blocking curtains.
'Shut up!' he exclaimed as the gulls flew closer outside.
Today they irritated him more than usual. Maybe it had something to do with the fumes licking the sweat from his mind, but all he could think about was the ocean every time they cried out. He loved the sea in its shore sucking meditations and strong tantrums filled with the roar of bursting waves. It reflected what was within him the violent waves crashing on the shores of his mind.
He was going to create orange flames to lick at the stars and heat to ripple the darkness as paint peeled and metal creaked in warping complaint.
He sniffed long and hard. 'I'm a poet on petrol,' scoffed Dean as the romanticised thoughts danced in his fume filled mind.
Picking up his lighter and fumbling in his jeans for his cigarettes, Dean then put one to his dry lips. The cap of the Zippo clicked back gently and his thick skinned thumb moved to the sparking wheel, stopping abruptly just before spinning it.
'Nearly, but I'm not going to play Russian roulette. Thought you could catch me out though, didn't you?' He talked over his shoulder to the gloom gathered behind him in the bedroom.
'Thought you could let me melt like some twisted, flame-spun version of the wicked witch? Well, I'm not going out like that.' The figure he saw over his right shoulder stood with its arms crossed over its wide chest. It was a shadow with no features, face hidden, clothes black, always silent.
'The shards of demon's teeth will eat the dishonesty and bring redemption at the hands of a revenge seeker.' Dean whispered the words while tapping his fingernails gently on the blue glass of the central bottle.
'And the past sins shall be consumed in his fire; mantra of all that comes around in the circles that have yet to be undone.' He looked at the warped contours of his shallow face in the curves of the bottle and the liquid within.
A deep silence filled the room. The gulls outside wheeled in the wind, confused as grey clouds rolled overhead like breakers in the ocean.
'I'm coming.' Dean grinned at his reflection and sat back in the old wooden chair. He closed his eyes and let fantasies roll off the dripping tongue of his petroleum drenched mind.
His wrists had been slashed and now he had gathered up the blood and put it in bottles. They chinked in anticipation on the passenger seat as the car sped through the night towards the city.
Lights were visible on the horizon; a collection of fallen, electric stars, orange and white. He'd add to their sickly stain on the bellies of the clouds above. He'd add the fierceness of revenge exacted.
Dean drove the car up the city street, the bottles speaking in their high voices as the car went over bumps and small potholes. The houses lining the street flickered with the ghostly pale of television screens as the city remained oblivious to his arrival.
Ahead was the garage, the place of lighter flicking and bottle throwing, his preparations finally baring fruit. The salesman at the garage had taken his trust and turned it into a weapon, thrusting its blade deep and then stabbing repeatedly for good measure.
That's where he'd bought the expensive car, the ill beast unfit for the road. They'd ripped him off in the hope he wouldn't find out until it was too late. He hadn't. Their hopes had been fulfilled.
After the warranty had expired he'd serviced the car and the faults and problems were brought to light. That's when he found his trust to have become a sharp blade. Unable to pay for the repairs, the car had failed its MOT. Then had come the attempts to have the car returned to the garage where it had been purchased. All had failed and it had been towed away to leave Dean with a substantial debt that had added strain to his already stressed financial affairs.
Now, armed with five bottles wearing cloth caps, he was going to repay their unkindness and dishonesty. The car lot would dance with an ancient force wielded by his revenge intent hands. He was justice being done. He was to find his solace in fire.
In his fantasy Dean's left hand stroked the cold glass as he slowed the car. He could feel the slip and slide of the liquid on his fingertips as he slowly wound down the window and grinned from behind the wheel.
That was the time he awaited, the moments of glory which would be so fleeting. These were to be private memories which he'd savour greedily in times to come.
In his mind's eye Dean stopped the car by the wire fence and reached over to pluck the first bottle from the passenger seat. Sniffing deeply, he smiled at the sensations of its fumes squirming in his mind.
The lighter was taken from the front-right pocket of his jeans as he looked in the rear-view to check there was no one else evident on the street.
He was alone with his glass encapsulated hatred. Dean could feel his erection aching in reality and he raised the lighter to the rag hanging from the bottle in his pleasurable fantasy.
In his imagination his left arm trembled as he gripped the first bottle so tight that he thought it may shatter and sliver him with red stained, glinting shards. The lighter's spark became flame and took to the rag straight away, crawled rapidly up the cloth with an urgency that allowed no hesitation on his part. Dean saw himself fling the bottle from the open window, its trace heat lingering about him for a moment before being brushed away by the cool night breeze.
He watched the comet of trailing flame glide over the fence with an appealing, arcing grace. Then, in blunt vomiting, it crashed onto the windscreen of one of the cars on the lot. The bonnet and window became pools of dancing light, flames springing to life with an audible rush of desperate oxygen consumption.
Spurred on by this beautiful sight and the taste of victory upon his orange tinted lips, Dean picked up another bottle, lit its makeshift fuse and threw it. One after the other the three remaining bottles sailed into the lot and began to blaze with sky tearing orange and yellow claws. This was motion and life given to his hatred, this is what the salesman had begun and he had ended. What goes around comes around.
Dean opened his eyes and stared at the dark curtains hiding the world. It was to remain hidden until darkness came and he was ready to set off and set his fire roaring, live his fantasy.
'What else can I do?' he asked over his shoulder, unlit cigarette still hanging from the side of his mouth and erection fading slowly.
The shadowy figure behind him didn't answer and didn't move. It wanted him to forgive, to move on and forget what the garage had done to him. But he couldn't do that. The feelings had festered inside him, been nurtured by the darkness which the salesman had created.
Dean had tried to dispel the hatred, tried to force it out. He'd stood before the bathroom mirror, naked and trembling in the depth of night, and stared deeply into his own eyes. There he'd seen that the flames were already alight, already dancing with a destructive joy. He'd been transfixed by their dance for a while and in this he'd seen the future.
Then, with the sudden realisation that the flames were consuming him, he'd rammed his fingers down his throat and vomited into the sink, hoping to expel the darkness within. But, looking up with puffed, red eyes, Dean had seen the continuing dance of fire that licked so seductively at his mind.
Every night since he'd dreamt of flaming wheels turning and spinning, of women with fiery hair touching him, fingertips upon his torrid skin, of spewing onto the car lot with breath like a dragon. Such vivid dreams.
Now it was all so close and maybe when it was done the demons would fall silent or be released. For the time being they chattered, moved around in his mind restlessly.
Dean was filled with monsters which had struggled and fought for dominance. He'd tried so hard to shrug the demons from his mind. The leaflets and posters had been an attempt to cage the beasts behind bars of black ink and leave them on walls and lampposts around the town.
'Scum alert. Smokin' Wheels Garage sells cars unfit for the road.' That's what the writing on the walls and pushed through post boxes had been. Plain and simple.
But the words of warning to others had proved to be a feeble cage, had contained the demons for only a few brief hours. For that time Dean had been granted a strange calm, a temporary reprieve.
Then he'd seen the council workmen methodically tearing down his poster prisons. The anger had risen and Dean nearly got into a fight with one of the men as they faced each other and shouted abuse.
'Just doing my job.' What a lame and pathetic excuse. What a sorry statement. It made Dean explode in disgust. Fists clenched, he'd struggled hard to retain some element of composure, to keep his fists from causing pools of bruising on the workman's face.
All that Dean could think about from that point on was direct action, of taking his anger to the front door of the enemy. He'd strike at the heart, burn it, devour it, take it in his teeth and let the blood flow down his throat.
He wanted to taste their demise. Smokin' Wheels would regret the day they ripped him off. It would burn in their minds, as would all the memories of the doubtless numerous other customers they'd made fools of.
Flames. Orange and yellow tongues, claws, and teeth to devour and consume. Heat to scorch the earth. His demons to be freed and allowed to run amok. They would destroy the foe, take their precious car lot and leave nothing but burnt-out husks. Blackened bodies were going to litter the lot, corpses of a business left in tatters.
Dean grinned with a sense of growing euphoria. Yes, he was going to taste victory that night and he could already feel its sweetness on his tongue. The demons would cackle and crackle in the night, finally liberated in destructive breath.
Without thinking he picked up the lighter from the table before him, lifted it to the cigarette still hanging from his mouth, and lit up.
The room bloomed in an explosion of fire and he was consumed by the dance of his own hatred. Trying to scream, Dean found the flames reaching inside him, clawing at his mouth and throat. In agony he writhed with final, flame-laced spasms as death seared its way to his black heart and the stormy waves within were evaporated.