Cheer Up, Jimmy: 3 Melancholy Short Stories, Page 2

Jimmy sat in the hall, proud of what he’d done. It hadn’t occurred to him that anything but the horse would burn. It was a beautiful cinder centrepiece and still felt untouchable, venerable, sacrosanct. It didn’t occur to him to put out the flames. Not even when he heard a loud pop. Not even when he heard the roar and felt the heat. He sat outside the pink room, leaning against the door, feeling it grow warm, feeling the air from beneath the door glide over his fingers, warming them too. Quite frankly, he didn’t care if the whole room went up, the whole house even, as long as that horse burned.

  He sat there, playing with his Zippo unconsciously, flipping it open and closed, lighting it over and over until the lid burned his thumb. He was waiting for the crackling to stop, for the monster that had become of his small fiery minion to die down and stop roaring but it only grew louder. The door had became hot and the air from beneath it hotter, rushing out in a fury and carrying smoke with it now in loose, brief wisps. He jumped up, understanding and worried and grabbed at the doorknob. He screamed as it burned his flesh, carving out a perfect circle with heat.

  “Tell me about your hand, Jimmy,” the doctor said. “Were you trying to escape?”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes and rearranged himself in the small metal folding chair. “What’s it matter?”

  “I’m just curious. Were you trying to save her? That’s what you told the lawyers.”

  “Didn’t work, did it?”

  “What didn’t?”