The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Loss - 10/31/04

Sunday, October 31, 2004

It's a beautiful, unseasonably warm day, the kind of day when death feels very far off. Everything and everyone can lie, even the weather itself. Disheartening. 

But I think this false lull is about the only thing that's going to get me through telling this. I have to start from the top and just work my way down. 

So where does that leave us? Friday night. A time for any normal twenty-somethings to be out dancing and drinking, perusing the flesh market. But there the three of us were in my apartment, Rence and Naomi and me, taking precaution by staying inside and just playing some Scattergories. 

I was so stupid. 

Anyway... we squeezed some fun out of the evening, with Rence teasing me about Alyce's flirtations (I'd made the mistake of telling him the story), and Naomi pitching a fit every time she got below ten points in a round, which was often. That world-famous temper that Carrie had warned me about. I was able to forget that I had nearly died the night before at Howe's hands. Hell, I was even able to forget my former rule of thumb, that a few Millers were necessary for good times. 

We all tucked in for the night around midnight. We should have taken turns on guard duty until dawn... for God's sake, I had just slaughtered one of the most important purples in the city. Would it have taken that much effort for each of us to sacrifice a couple of hours of sleep? 

But no, I still had that misguided feeling that my apartment was a safe haven, a divinely protected zone, and that nothing bad could happen within those walls.

Before we drifted off to sleep, Naomi beckoned me over, like she had done the first night she stayed at my apartment. 

"What's up?" I whispered. 

"I just... I want to be honest with you," she whispered back. "I should've been a while ago. The moment you showed up to help me. But I was too— ugh. I've just been aware, and protective, of certain things my whole life, and I couldn’t fight that instinct on the spur of the moment— or even after a whole lot of moments had passed—" 

I touched her shoulder and leaned in close. I said, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

She shook her head. "I'm flailing here.... I should just wait until morning." 

"Sounds good to me," I murmured, yawning. "I'm half-gone, here." 

Naomi reached out and squeezed my wrist lightly. "I don't know why you keep putting up with my shit, but thanks. G'night." She let go and rolled over on the futon.

I crawled back to my spot on the floor (Rence's night for the bed), too sleepy to puzzle over what she'd said or been trying to say. A few minutes later, I floated off to sleep. 

When I woke up, my apartment was on fire. 

Naomi slapped me across the face, frantically shouting my name. I scrambled upright. Took in the flames on the walls, the heavy smoke clouding the air. 

"What happened?" I yelled. "What happened?" 

"We've gotta get out of here!" she yelled back, and muffled her mouth with her arm.

Beside me, Rence had sat up in bed and was blinking sleepily. As soon as he saw the fire, he got to his feet. I was slower— I felt like I was moving through a dream. That's what it had to be, I thought. Those couldn't really be my things on fire. 

Naomi hooked her arms around me and wrenched me to my feet. "Mark!" she screamed in my face. "Come on!" 

I grabbed my crumpled pants from the floor and fished my cell phone out of a pocket. "I have to call the—"