Burn Rebekah Griffin

Burn

Five million stars.

That is how many tiny, glowing dots poke through the atmosphere, burning above me as I lay still on the grass, listening to the night.

Beside me, Pete leans back on his palms, cigarette between his teeth as he looks up at the sky. I think he feels the same way about it that I do—overwhelmed and wonderous, scared and small.

We stay like that for a while, contemplating fate. I watch the smoke from his cigarette as it curls and spirals into the sky. I find myself wondering what it would be like to float away into the darkness when his voice pulls me back to earth.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We should get going.’

We pick ourselves up off the grass and dust off our jeans. In the distance, the lights of our town sparkle on the horizon, calling us home.

As I climb into his truck, I watch him flick the cigarette onto the ground. I hate it when he does that, but then, I am guilty of it too. I shake my head when he offers me one—it has been years since I smoked, but he always offers. I think he would feel better if I took one, but tonight is not the night.

‘I don’t know, Ace.’ He laughs as he lights up. ‘I think you’re getting boring.’

I smirk as I buckle my seatbelt. I secretly love it when he calls me that.

‘Whatever.’ I roll my eyes. He slides into the driver’s side and revs the engine. I know he is joking but, he’s probably not wrong. It’s been five years since my mother’s failed lung transplant. The doctors attempted to replace them as they betrayed her body, eating themselves from the inside out.

The Emphysema shattered us. The new lungs gave us hope. Instead, in a twist of irony, all that is left of her is ash.

‘You okay, Ace?’ I feel his hand on mine.

I shake my head, laughing as my voice replies , ‘Yes,’ but my body tells him the truth. ‘Let’s go get a beer’

I don’t want to go; I want to lay back down on that grass and feel my body turn into stardust, but I’m too tired to argue. I know he is trying to distract me from my grief. Five years is a long time to get over something, but I feel like it will take me five lifetimes to stop missing my mother – as if I ever could. I say nothing and fold my hands together in my lap.

I need to learn to be present instead of letting my mind wander all the time. My mother used to ask me where I was when I spaced out, and I would tell her stories about astral projecting to other countries to make her wheeze a raspy laugh.

Pete never asks me what I’m thinking about because he already knows the answer.

We pull into the carpark of the local pub. From inside, I can hear the typical country ruckus of a Saturday night. The jukebox is playing some song, a drunk guy is singing, teenagers—too young to be drinking—are laughing. I stand in the gravel and wait as Pete lights another cigarette.

The sound of the paper sizzling down as he inhales echoes in my brain. The raw thirst I feel at the back of my throat when I smell that familiar scent reminds me of my mother. I imagine her, lifting a cigarette to her mouth as she smiles at me, her perfectly manicured fingers stained yellow. For a moment, she is no longer clouded by the blur of memory, and the reality of her absence is clear in my mind.

Pete coughs. I make a face, and he laughs at me.

His laugh is spitting. His laugh is a slap. His laugh is innocent, but it’s as if the world has suddenly tilted on its axis.

I don’t know if it’s the gust of wind that blows the smoke into my face or years of putting up with his annoying way of taking care of me and disregarding himself, but something inside of me snaps, and I rip the cigarette out of Pete’s mouth.

‘Please, stop,’ I say. His mouth is agape. I never stand up for myself. For him. For anything. I try to stand firm, but my hands are still shaking, and a sob bursts out of my mouth.

I cry, and he hugs me.

Above us, the stars keep burning.

27

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