I DIDN'T BURN the cabin down because I was angry. I did it because I was desperate.
My parents didn't listen to me. I suppose I should be used to it by now. Sometimes, I fathomed their declining manner. I wasn't a piece of cake, I'll admit to that. My parents merely tolerated me. Sometimes it didn't bother me, the world was too big for me to be seeking validation from people who weren't willing to give it to me. I was aware of their faint disliking to me, and my destructive habits kicked in then. By then I learned to fight back.
Except for today. The argument was of my career path, or something. I wouldn't know, I wasn't mentally present for most of the fight. I recall reciting It's a Wonderful Life frame by frame in my head while I muffled out their shouts. But I could faintly remember my father yelling out something along the lines of; Why do we pay for that prep school of yours if you don't plan on going to an ivy school? The funny part was that I never said I wouldn't go to an ivy league, only that it was too early in my life to put a stamp on the future.
But all my explanations went out one ear and out the other. Their voices drowned out in a muffled noise to me by then. I couldn't take the heat, so halfway through their lecture I went straight out the door. They didn't call on me to come back, because they knew where i'd always run off to after a fight; our cabin by the lake.
And now, back to the fire.
I didn't intend on it spreading to the cabin. At first, I was cold. Anyone that visited or resided in Henrietta and spent a night outside in nothing but a spaghetti strapped top — even on a late spring night — would confirm that the chill weather has its way of creeping into your bones. I, very fortunately, always stacked a cigarette pack and a lighter in my jeans pocket.
"I lit the cigarette for warmth." I managed to persuade the police officer.
But really, I lit it out of habit. The warmth was a bonus.
The next part isn't really much my fault either. I fell face-first on the dirt, with my grip still firm on the lighter. I'd wholly blame it on my genetics— my mother is just as clumsy. Then, the lighter set the bush on fire, slowly but surely lining its way to the cabin.
I'll admit, I didn't do anything to stop it. Watching the fire burn was almost... comforting. The risk, the anticipation— I didn't fear it, I devoured it. I even saw a way out, as I gaped at the flame. Then it spread quickly. You know the phrase rumours spread like wildfire? Then you should know it's a shit metaphor. One hell of an overstatement, if I do say so myself.
"That's all I remember. Next thing I know, i'm in the hospital, and now i'm here."
No— if i'm being completely honest, I would mention the voice. I don't like to think about it because it makes me feel certifiably insane. But before I blacked out, I could've sworn I heard a voice saying; "Now, you are reborn." And that was it.
Now you are reborn.
You can see why I choose to ignore that. It had to be a hallucination. Maybe even a false memory. Otherwise, I wouldn't have remembered it word by word, with the distinct voice.
Then I was in a hospital bed with a nurse looming over me. She informed me of all the patches of burns I had on my skin. "You're lucky you didn't suffocate from the gas," she'd said, but I didn't see anything lucky about having to face my parents after this incident. "First degree burn around your elbows. You're lucky you rolled a few meters a way when you passed out."
What she failed to mention was that i'd been covered in cinder, and they didn't bother to wipe the ashes off my face.
After the hospital check, the police took me back to the station. "Shouldn't I have, like, a lawyer or something?" I asked the police officer to my left.
"Just write down your information, and you can leave."
"Then can I have my stuff back?" I then took the items he handed me— my phone, and my cigarette pack which miraculously was only a little burnt. "I suppose I can't take my lighter back, can't I?"
"It's evidence."
"To what crime?" I leaned sluggishly against the counter. "The cabin is my dad's property, and we were planning on renovating anyway, so I did my family a favour by speeding up the process, didn't I?"
He didn't budge. Usually, i'm wittier than this, but two hours in the hospital bed and a quarter of an hour in the investigation room had me rusty. "Fine, just don't call my parents." It took a few more tries to persuade him, but I managed to leave undefeated. But what I failed to remember was that they'd call my father anyway, because his property burned down. By then my phone was vibrating with calls from my parents. I'm going on a walk, you can yell at me after that; I texted.
The air was cool when I left the station. They had given me a complimentary jacket, a clean piece of clothing over my jeans and top drenched with cinder and smelled of smoke. The most they did was let me wash my face and brush my hair out. I hastily made my way back to the cabin, careful not to walk on roads and neighbourhoods where my parents could spot me in their car on the way to the station.
I read somewhere that criminals and murderers go back to the scene of the crime after they commit it. I never understood it, but somehow, I found myself heading back to the cabin.
I was almost there when I passed by a building, Monmouth Manufacturing, and froze in my tracks. There was a patio in front of the building with no chairs, no seatings, but a nice extent of clean, fresh grass. My gaze landed on a boy at the abandoned warehouse, sitting peacefully on the floor with a book underneath his hands.
My first thought was that he looked clean, and didn't fit amidst the myriad of metals stacked besides him. He looked more like he belonged in a prep school magazine than anything, which lead me to believe he was from Aglinorby Prep. And when I saw the thin grey uniform sweater over his polo shirt, I realised he was in fact from Aglinorby Prep.
My eyes caught the cover of the book he was reading, The Great Gatsby. I only skimmed Wikipedia pages of all my assigned reading in literature and creative writing classes, so I couldn't recall if this book was one of them. I took out my phone, deleting the notifications from my parents before I opened a google page and searched; The Great Gatbsy, conclusion, summary and read all the articles for a good three minutes before I gathered myself and approached him.
He must've felt me loom over him, but he didn't spare me a glance, so I broke the silence and said; "Tragic, isn't it?" I let out the slightest of moans as I crashed to my knees besides him.
That caught his attention.
He shot his head to the side to look at me inquisitively. He didn't question the ashes in my hair, or the dark smudges across my face, which leads me to believe he's either just as insane as I looked, or had his fair share of encounters with peering strangers. "This?" He gestured to his book, lost.
"Yeah," I cleared my throat, recalling the articles I read. "I'm no pessimist, but it only confirmed why I hate society, and taking advantage of people– all those parties, all those guests, and yet... nobody but Rick at the funeral."
"Uh, well..." He closed his book, glancing over at me. "I guess that ruins the ending for me."
Oh. "You..." I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, and judging by the way his eyes glossed over them, it must've been red from sheepishness. "I thought everyone's read The Great Gatsby before, so I guessed you were rereading it."
"I'm kidding, this is my second read." He smiled slightly, as if accepting my unspoken apology. "But not everyone has read it before. You haven't."
I nodded. "Well, yeah, but—" The words died down in my throat when I repeated his words in my head. I turned to him warily. "How'd you guess?"
"To start, you said Rick not Nick." He said, amusing himself. "And I saw you stand there for five minutes after you saw my book."
I narrow my eyes at him. "God, I am way off my game today." I took the cigarette pack out of my pockets. "Do you have a lighter?" When he wouldn't give an answer, I sighed. "What, do you not trust me?"
"I don't know you."
"Beth St. James." I introduced. "Come on, I am a trustworthy looking person." I looked down at the radio besides him. "What's with the broken radio?"
He looked like he was debating whether or not it was a good idea to tell me, but eventually gave in. "Do you know anything about Welsh kings? Ley lines?"
Glendower, Llewellyn, Arthur, I thought. "I don't think there's anything i'd want to know about Welsh Kings, pretty boy."
He continued with a sudden interest in the conversation. "Owain Glyndr— Owen Glendower to non-Welsh speakers— a medieval Welsh noble, had fought against the English for Welsh freedom and then, when capture seemed inevitable, disappeared from the island and from history altogether." He told it with such thrill and excitement that he managed to intrigue me, a little. "Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings? The legends that heroes like Llewellyn and Glendower and Arthur aren't really dead, but are instead sleeping in tombs, waiting to be woken up?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "I think he's buried here."
I blinked vapidly. "You're kidding, right?" I chuckled.
"No, I—"
"Stories about gods or heroes that are asleep in caves or mountains are one of the most repetitive stories in North Europian folktales." I scoffed. "Saying you believe a story like that is like saying you believe in genies that grant wishes."
He didn't answer for a moment. "I thought you didn't know anything about Welsh Kings?"
"I'm not a literary fiction genius because my english teacher assigns us mythology books instead. Which is almost the same thing, you know." I bobbed my head down to the radio when I sensed he was bummed by me disagreeing. "Buried here, huh?" I played around with the unlit cigarette between my fingers. "I think I get it now."
"You do?"
"Not your theory, but why my parents are so insistent that I shouldn't talk to boys. I should probably take that advice, sometime."
"You shouldn't talk to strangers." He grinned. My first impression of him was that he spoke like an old man. I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from telling him that.
I played along. "You're right, I shouldn't. But I have a soft spot for pretty boys." I carried on. "And this is Henrietta, the peak crime rate we reached was when Kavinsky crashed his car into a party."
"You know Kavinsky?"
"Dated him." I suppose I should mention that it didn't last very long, but I didn't. It was evident that he was somewhat intimidated— no, not intimidated, but is above Kavinsky's conundrums. And I liked how it sounded, because I dated him for a month until I found out girls weren't his type didn't sound as cool.
He shook his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "He's nothing but trouble."
I caught his gaze, and a smile teased the corner of my mouth. "I like you." I decided solemnly. "An enemy of my enemy is a friend of mine, or so it goes."
"I don't think you know me enough to like me, though."
"Your theory didn't help, but I happen to be good at reading people, and you really have this sweet-boy vibe to you."
He arched an eyebrow. "I don't think you would've dated Kavinsky if you were good at reading people."
He had a point. "I read him perfectly well, thank you very much. But Kavinsky has an alluring nature to him, like a magnet pulling you in." I said it as I inched towards him in a sexually suggestive manner, batting my eyelashes at him. I was determined to break through his stone walls. "I'd say he's almost as enticing as you."
I realise now that kissing him was a bad idea. I realised it when I went in for the kiss, and he didn't kiss back.
"Well, this is new." I said, backing away from him. "You didn't kiss me back."
He looked at me with sympathetic eyes. "I figured I shouldn't help you make this mistake."
"You're sweet." I hummed. "You just aren't into me, I get it. It's absurd, of course, but understandable. You know, my friends at school have always said this was bound to happen to me eventually." I said as my back hit the wall again, tipping my head to the side to look at him. "I just thought it'd happen when I'm forty two and start to get wrinkly."
"Did I break your streak?"
"Absolutely crushed it."
"I could take you home so you can get cleaned up." He looked me in the eye when he said it. There was a sudden softness to him as he offered it, almost like he was saddened by me. "My family owns this building, you can pick any available apartment and stay there, if you don't want to go home. Just want to help."
It then became apparent to me that he was not intrested in me, but pitied me. I visibly cringed at the realisation. I didn't approach him in search of sympathy or to be treated as a damsel in distress, I wanted to be serenaded. I stood up abruptly, tension building in my shoulders. "Now I remember why I fucking hate Agliborny boys."
I was not a charity case. I wasn't someone to be pitied, either. I dusted off my jeans, letting out an inadvertent sigh before taking one step away. One step before I had to stop.
Right when I thought nothing would change my mind about leaving; a voice. Not mine, not his. But a faint, muffled voice from him radio. "Who are you?"
What the hell? I turned back around, but he didn't seem the hear what I heard. "You didn't hear that?" I asked, goosebumps building on my arms.
He shook his head, but he saw me glancing at the radio, and rushed to turn up the volume. "What did you hear?" He asked hastily.
"I– I heard–"
"What's your name?" The same voice— a girl, spoke through the radio.
"You can't tell me you didn't hear that."
"I did." He didn't tear his gaze from the radio, leaning in with anticipation. I then realised he wasn't scared. He wasn't the least bit of frightened. No, he was excited.
"Gansey." Another voice said.
"Is that all?"
"That's all there is."
The radio stopped by then. No muffled noises, nothing. When I looked down to him, I had the feeling he knew something I didn't. His face was bewildered, and it almost looked like he was solving a puzzle in his head.
"Who the hell is Gansey?" I asked, half alarmed, half curious.
He looked up to me and ruefully said; "I am."
"Old tape?" I asked edgily.
"Picked up a random channel." He shook his head. "I caught it. I recorded it." He said, relieved.
"Do you recognise the voice?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't seem as alarmed by this as a normal, sane person would and should be." My gaze wandered off to the distance to contemplate this. I am too tired for a ghost story. "Welsh Kings?" I asked for confirmation.
"Welsh Kings." He nodded.
And that was my cue to walk away. It's probably an old tape. Right?