|Burned (standard:other, 13521 words)|
|Author: 525||Added: Jan 15 2001||Views/Reads: 2433/1415||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A young man falls from society and searches for insanity.|
-Burned- -Prologue Cole Reiley was born in LA during the Rodney King riots. He was born in the early morning just as the sky was starting to lighten, which made it just a bit easier to make out the city backdrop behind the three or four fires you could see from his mother’s hospital room window. Shortly after that, his family moved to San Diego and his life progressed normally, normally... for a pyromaniac, that is. He played with matches, started smoking, always had a lighter, dabbled in minor homemade explosives, and he was always searching. By the time he was eighteen he was doing two things he liked regularly: seeing his psychiatrist and setting fires. Seeing Dr. Lewis Ray had become a game to Cole, leading Dr. Ray down dead ends and keeping him on the line, making him think they were progressing and then pulling the rug out with huge set backs. Cole was very intelligent and he liked manipulating people, especially people who thought they were intelligent, especially Dr. Ray. In actuality, counseling was pushing him further and further towards insanity. Watching his fires, on the other hand, was the only thing that made him feel closer to being sane. This is Cole's story of escape from society and his search for destruction. -Daydream I'm in a very large, very sterile, room -- not like hospital “sterile” but “sterile” as in absent of character, like robots or soulless people had designed it. There are large shiny black tiles on the floor; what look like huge stainless steel cabinets without handles line the walls. There are only a few things occupying the massive amounts of floor space: a handful of people, a podium, and a coffin. The coffin is on a stainless steel gurney against the wall behind the podium. A priest is standing between the podium and the coffin doling out impersonal words that he has spoken so many times that they have lost meaning to him. He doesn't hide this very well. Those words may be affecting the others in attendance, though. Most of them seem very upset, but maybe they just feel this is how they are supposed to seem. It is as if they have a chest of drawers, each drawer containing different expressions or emotions. Depending on what the situation calls for, they would reach into the appropriate drawer and don their mask. Today’s expressions seemed to be mostly from the drawer marked “Sadness,” but as I looked closer I saw hints that some had dressed from the “Fear” drawer. Or maybe I was just seeing some reality slipping out from behind the costumes. The priest finishes and another man steps up to the podium. I recognize him as my dad. -Now this should be interesting-. He is looking down, apparently in sorrow, but when he looks up and opens his eyes, I see there is nothing there - nothing but empty sockets, personal black holes from which no gaze can escape. He seems unaffected and he opens his mouth to give his eulogy, but nothing comes out. Slowly his face changes from calm, to fear, from fear to terror, from terror to horror. His face pulls back and his mouth opens wider, as if to scream, but that pleasure is robbed from him when, suddenly, massive amounts of a thick black liquid start pouring out of his mouth, like some type of black jelly cry. Then, just as suddenly, his body ceases to exist. Nothing is left but a pile of ashes on the floor - a very small pile of ashes. You would think that the remains of a soul would be bigger. One of the stainless steel cabinet doors slides open as if by magic. The room is blasted with heat and filled with the sound of gas-powered flames cranked full blast. Even the flames are sterile: a pretty blue with orange tips arranged around the sides all shooting toward the center, leaving about a two-foot by one-foot rectangle of wavering blackness in the middle. Two men from the party (two men I don't recognize) start pushing my coffin (I guess I always knew it was my coffin) towards the flaming, open cabinet. It starts sliding off of the Click here to read the rest of this story (1346 more lines)
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