whiskey and fire
A. L. Smith
A hex could work. What do I have to lose? If it doesn’t, I can always go back to my original plan: kill myself.
The library book says you need a candle, a personal item from your target, and the incantation— then, BAM! Hexed! Luckily, my mother always keeps candles on hand; they’re a cheap alternative when the power inevitably gets shut off for nonpayment. Finding a personal item from my intended victim wasn’t difficult. It’s my stepfather.
I am not hexing him for no reason, or for some silly childish slight. He is a monster that needs to be destroyed.
Where should I set up? My room is cluttered and small, no desk, no dresser, not even a flat surface. The best option is my bed. It’s flat enough, and fittingly appropriate; it’s where the monster commits his worst acts of villainy.
A wave of nausea grips me. Flashes of memories bubble to the surface unbidden and unwelcome. I need to forget.
I leave my bedroom and head to the kitchen, passing my mother and stepfather as they watch TV in the living room. They don’t notice me.
The liquor cabinet sits just inside the kitchen, unlocked and easy to access. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it to the brim with the first alcohol I see— McNaughton’s Whiskey.
At fourteen, I am a drinking virgin and have no idea if the brand is “good” or not. It doesn’t matter. If I am lucky, death by alcohol poisoning will be my fate, saving me from having to commit suicide. Always a silver lining.
I carefully traipse back through the living room and manage to reenter my bedroom unnoticed, without spilling a drop of whiskey. Before I lose my nerve, I down the entire glass. My throat burns and my body protests, but I don’t stop. A little pain is worth the price of oblivion. The glass is empty in seconds. Mother would be proud.
Suppressing a cough from the sting of the whiskey, I set up the makeshift alter on my bed. First, the candle— red, the color of blood and rage. Next, I place a small bowl holding a few hairs I stole from my stepfather’s hairbrush. The library book lies nearby, open to the page of the incantation.
Satisfied, I search for matches or a lighter. Under my bed, a BIC lighter waits— left from the last time my mother got drunk and tried to do a sage cleanse of the house.
Now I can begin. I cross the short distance to the light switch and I flick it off. Only a sliver of light peeks through the window to guide my steps. Unsteadiness grips me as I stumble back to my bed. The candle sputters to life at the tip of my BIC. My voice trembles as I begin the recitation.
After three words, the candle falls, setting my comforter alight. All I can do is laugh, then stare as the flames spread, slowly devouring the fabric. The robins-egg blue turns to charcoal black. Plump stuffing disintegrates into ash. How fitting.
My mind drifts into a haze of surreal apathy.
Burn baby, burn.
Only when the flames burn a hole the size of a grapefruit do I realize the danger.
I struggle to my feet, legs wobbly like a precariously placed JELLO mold. Once upright, an eerie calm settles over me as I stagger out my bedroom door for another trek to the kitchen. The room spins as I force my body to cooperate.
I am still invisible as I search for water. Managing to grab a glass without breaking or dropping it onto the tile floor, I fill it at the nearby faucet. Paranoia grips me—surely they hear me this time. With a pounding heart, I retreat as quickly as possible to the safety of my bedroom. No one glances in my direction.
The flames have burned a basketball-sized hole in my mattress.
Arms akimbo, I throw the entire cup of water at the fire. Fortunately, the small amount of water manages to quell most of it, and I smother what’s left with an unburned corner of my comforter. The room fills with smoke— cloying and putrid, the smell sets my lungs afire. A fit of wracking coughs overwhelms me, as I struggle to expel the smoke from my lungs. My eyes itch and tear from the haze. Realization washes over me: I am in so much trouble.
Hide the evidence! my mind screams. I hurl the magic book into the mess of a closet, knock the bowl with the hairs under my bed, and wad up the candle in the uncharred remains of my bedding, I wait. I wait for them to investigate the smoke, the smell, the missing whiskey. I wait for the punishment to come. Nothing. Hope bolsters me as I stumble drunkenly to my window and let in the crisp night air.
The fresh air flows over me, raising goosebumps over every inch of exposed skin. Greedily, I fill my lungs with the sweet, clean fragrance. My eyes close. A sense of peace rises within me.
Maybe I won’t have to kill myself. Maybe I’m free. I think as alcohol lulls me into oblivion.
Photo of A. L. Smith
BIO: A. L. Smith lives in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States. She writes for pleasure, for catharsis, and to stay sane. Because of this she spends many hours of her free time each day hunched over her computer, furiously typing away and weaving the mad stories of her mind into existence.