The Phantom Inferno Martine Bigos

from Calliope - Spring 2021

Talk Martine Bigos

The Phantom Inferno

Martine Bigos

Sweat-laden bricks stacked for assembly resided next to the boarded split levels that were cemented on the street. When joyous screams forged by youth rang throughout the neighborhood, cries followed in time. But within the havoc brought on by our actuality was my phantom haze, a being that granted me the chance to maneuver any truths I feared to confront. The forest. I used to draw a fine line between reality and any sense of reverie provided by the backwoods.

Behind my house, a small shed blighted by decay accommodates rot snuggled between what’s left of paint-chipped wood paneling and a lichencovered roof. One bird feeder remains, stolen by squirrels and chipmunks. No food can be dispensed to robins and cardinals who loom near the maple in the springtime. My gaze was never set on any woodland creatures, and I failed to acknowledge the newborn robins nested in the holly shrub.

Within the larger shed situated on the other side of the backyard, a figment of my childhood rests. I don’t know what we keep in there anymore, maybe open house signs and a multicolored trash can or two. The door never closes. Years ago I’d circle the shed, and proceed to stop in front of the door. I’d push as much as I could with my eyes shut. But the door would only remain jammed for two seconds. Not long after, it would creak open once more, and I’d run my cracked heels up the hills, making my way to the house through the raspberry bushes. Today when I rest on the hammock, I look into the shed to see if I can make out what lives inside, and when all I see is a pool of uncertainty, I gaze up at the sun to tire myself.

When I’d sit in my dining room and observe the old estates beyond the forest, I only went on to peer into my overgrown garden that could not be cured by the power of my will, requiring the blessing of a phantom

haze. My state of mind evolved until no weeds suffocated the tomato plants. I looked past the patch of rubber tile that had once been home to my playground and broke apart when the rain no longer pitied that rotten haven. The sheds ceased to burden my conscience, and the bird feeder blended with the verdure of the maple tree. I leaned into delusion, something only weakness can provide.

And so methods became joys. But then the boy struck a match just as the Barred Owl’s day began, and the wall of Tyre’s strongholds were nearly devoured. The azaleas loomed beyond his cloven-footed silhouette, and shriveled as they were, dawned a messianic aura over the corner of my distorted sanctuary. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen at the time. When I passed him along the street on occasional walks, he’d race to his home, avoiding conversation. I never thought him evil. My mind attempted to corrupt my senses, but this was no phantom inferno conceived by the gloomiest corners of my imagination. The wicked stab at my reverie died out as Dad set foot outside to meet the boy’s eye. He ran to his home, just fifty feet away. A few years have passed, and I see him working in his garden every summer. He even offered to pull out weeds for us, once. He’s changed. He no longer drops his head when we speak to him, and his father does not appear fearful when we ask of him. One time, he asked me about school.

“What do you like to study?” “English.” “Oh, I see. Anything else? “No.”

I know that my parents are disappointed when I appear unfriendly. But how could I let my guard down when it came to him? Nevertheless, what’s

done is done. It was time to grow up.

How existence became a greater fear to me than my illusions remain a mystery. The refuge so protected by my ignorance nearly burned that December evening. I hated him, but I have to give thanks. Maybe I just got older. Regardless, an abyss of deceit once muffled my ambitions. But now I do not ignore the rotting shed, nor the dilapidated deck. Disdain for the imperfect is no more abominable than infatuation with the untrue.