Burning Acid
An arsonist’s confession and a taste of bittersweet.
“She threw the match into the puddle of gasoline that she had poured onto his floor. And as the match hit the liquid, she couldn’t help but notice how peaceful the puddle looked. So peaceful, and yet, full of unseen power. The flames soon spread. Flames in red, in orange, in teal and in blue. Flames.”
Fuck flames.
See? This is where I get stuck. Thirteen times I’ve tried to finish this short story, and thirteen times I’ve been defeated by the fucking flames. It’s a story about a woman’s revenge. Or I should say, a therapeutical piece to help me get over a breakup, a betrayal, a sayonara to five years of my life I’m never getting back. I want Susan to burn down her husband’s cabin (yes he has a cabin). I want Susan to set every piece of his furniture on fire. And I want Susan to take all of my grief away.
Yet, every time I get stuck because I don’t know how to describe the fucking flames.
And I’ve never hated writing more than at this very moment.
Have you ever experienced this — you’re dancing at a club, having the best time of your life, when all of a sudden you see the reflection of yourself on a shiny surface, and your self-esteem just collapses? Because you suddenly realize all your seemingly cool moves are just clumsy limbs being thrown into the air, and whatever great expectations you had in mind for yourself are nothing but pathetic illusions. Well, that’s my relationship with writing.
It isn’t (or should I say, wasn’t) the case with Aiden though. He’s sensitive, chaotic, and narcissistic — he’s got all the traits you need to be a great writer. And that’s why I fell in love with him.
He gave me reading lists, edited my articles, and took me to exclusive book talks. At one point he even made literature references during sex. I enjoyed every moment. I loved him so much that even when he cheated, the pain became gasoline, making my love burn even brighter.
Fucking flames.
I mean what color should they even be? I know what flames look like on my cooking stove, but what do they look like if they’re burning down a cabin in a gasoline fire?
I mean, are you supposed to write about things you don’t know? What about things that you sort of know, but are not entirely sure of? Have all the well-respected writers in history lived the kinds of lives their characters lived? Or did they just make everything up? And if they did make everything up, how the fuck did they do such a good job making up so many people’s lives while I’m here all night staring at a piece of scrap paper, unable to figure out what color some fucking flames should be?
And you know makes this even worse? Aiden would know. No — he wouldn’t just know. He’d find a way to transform the flames from words on paper into dancing ballerinas. He would set up the scene so well you’d believe he was once an arsonist. And despite that, or maybe because of it, you would fall madly in love with him.
There’s a lot to hate about Aiden, too. For one, he’s just better than me at almost everything. He not only writes better, but also cooks better, runs faster, makes more money, and takes better Instagram photos. I’d also bet he has more orgasms if I only I had a way to verify.
We joked about breaking up when we were together. In that story we would both be emotionally broken, looking for remedies through alcohol and writing, while holding on to the glimpse of hope that our paths would cross again 30 years later.
But life is a better scriptwriter than either of us, because it directed Aiden towards a younger woman, and left me with two months of unpaid rent. Now, if we do cross paths again 30 years later, I would punch the 67-year-old Aiden and his new old lady in the face.
I don’t know much about his new girlfriend. But I bet she has an obnoxious list of books on Goodreads, and that her head is full of so many literature references and anecdotes that her life is like an everlasting game of trivia.
Fuck her. Because no one is good enough for Aiden.
And fuck Aiden. Because you can’t bring sight to the blind, and then decide to take it away one day, in a truck, together with your furniture.
And fuck me, for loving someone so much. Someone brutal, someone capable, someone talented. Someone I wish I could be, but never would be.
I guess Susan is not that pathetic. Susan is a strong and independent woman, one who knows what she wants and has the balls to do it. How am I entitled to create a character like Susan, when all I’ve done is stare at a computer screen, a nearly full trash can, and a dry, lumpy, saggy tangerine that reminds me of my aging skin?
I want to set the tangerine on fire. Maybe that’s the cure I need. Maybe that burning lump of fiber and acid would tell me what flames should look like, and provide me with all the answers humanity’s been searching for.
On my sixth try at lighting up the tangerine, my mom calls and asks me if I’ve eaten.
“Yes of course. I’m actually cooking.” I say.
“Oh? What are you making, honey?” She asks.
“Caramel tangerine sauce,” I say, looking at the piece of fruit that has turned into charcoal. “You should try it someday. It’s very sweet.”
