David Alan Dedin
Burning Down the House
Thirty-Eight
Burning Down the House
2016
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The gas filled the dark kitchen as Sharon, holding a gun, and Alan, carrying $95,000 and a chafing dish, walked/wheeled circles around each other, like characters from a wild west movie. Patrick and Stephanie were all but forgotten as the two old adversaries came face-to-face after twenty-four years. It was then when Patrick suddenly realized, Sharon wants to KILL Alan, and she used me and Stephanie as a way of making that happen!
Patrick quickly changed his tune –
“Sharon, listen…put the gun down!”
Unable to say no, Sharon fired a warning shot in Patrick’s direction – BLAM! – which made Stephanie grab him from behind.
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By some act of God, it didn’t ignite the propane that was accumulating in the air.
Sharon’s eyes narrowed at Alan. She aimed and cocked her gun again.
“What do we do?” Steph asked Patrick.
“Yes, Sharon, what do we do now?” Alan asked, overhearing.
Clang, clang, clang! Sharon’s fist hit the side of her wheelchair. She was so frustrated over not being able to speak, Alan could see her face go red, even in the darkness.
He decided to change that – click!
The lights snapped on in the kitchen, temporarily blinding everyone. In the moments it took for eyes to adjust, Alan snatched the gun from Sharon and now aimed it at her. The fluorescents buzzed above as the scene had suddenly changed for the worse.
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“Alan, put down the gun,” Patrick told him.
“Why?” Alan asked. “I thought it was scarier when Sharon had it.”
The gas was growing thicker now. Every breath of air filled Patrick’s lungs with propane.
“So, what are you going to do with the gun then?” he asked. “We’re all kind of trapped here now, and you have our attention. So, what now?”
Alan aimed the gun squarely between Sharon’s eyes. “What now is that I end this for good,” he said. “Clean the slate. Get rid of some memories that make me fuckin’ sad.”
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“What do you mean memories, Alan?” Patrick asked, realizing something. Seeing he had no choice, he took a step closer. “Again, what do you mean memories?”
Alan’s eyes were starting to water.
“What I mean is all I have are memories,” Alan said, growing somber. “Memories of you, memories of Stephanie, memories of” – his voice lingered a moment – “Guinevere.”
Seeing an in, Patrick kept Alan talking. “I miss Guinevere, too.”
“But not in the way I miss her,” Alan said, tearing up. “You and I, we’ve always been friends…but Guinevere and I, well, what we had was special.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked softly.
“What I mean is that we understood where the other was coming from,” Alan told him. “We were both so sad, and we bonded over that sadness.”
Patrick’s voice grew even lower – “What do you mean, Alan?”
“I mean that I’m depressed,” Alan burst, taking a sudden gulp of air. “And I’ve been depressed for a very long time! I’ve been depressed for like, decades. For as long as I remember. And with Guinevere and Stephanie gone, I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“I’m not gone,” Stephanie told him, stepping forward herself. “I’m the one who went searching for you.”
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“But it’s too late, Stephanie. Too late for everything…”
Patrick gently pulled Sharon back as he took her place. Alan looked down a moment, then raised his gun again on seeing that Patrick was closer – “Alan, give me the gun.”
Silence.
Alan chuckled. “You know, not a day goes by when I don’t think about killing myself.”
Silence.
“Alan, don’t say things like that…”
“But it’s true,” Alan insisted. “I think about suicide every goddamn day. And whenever I try to talk to others about it, it scares the hell out of them – and they back away. Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you know how much that makes me even sadder?”
“Alan, please, give me the gun…”
“When Guinevere was dying she said, ‘the worst thing about my depression is that it has a sense of humor,’” Alan said. “And the thing that rocked me to the core was that I understand where she was coming from” – cough, cough! – “and that I knew exactly what she meant. My depression has a sense of humor, too. A big one.”
“Alan, please give Patrick the gun,” Stephanie pleaded.
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“Depression is a hideous thing, especially when it goes on for years,” Alan continued. “But it’s worse when those years turn into decades.”
Patrick inched forward as Stephanie took Sharon’s wheelchair and discreetly scooted it back. The gas was growing so thick, it was hard to breathe – and Stephanie worried that it would ignite from the pilot lights on the stoves.
“Decades, Patrick…do you know what that’s like?”
“Alan, I can’t even imagine.”
“And I even have a date for when I first realized I was depressed,” Alan told Patrick, tears running down his cheek. “It was fall 1982, when I was watching 20/20 with Hugh Downs. They were talking about how mercury fillings leached into your bloodstream, and how that chemical reaction caused depression. They listed the symptoms of depression, you know. And even though I was 13 years old, I could still recognize those symptoms in myself. Two thousand sixteen minus nineteen eighty-two…that means I’ve been depressed thirty-four years, Patrick…thirty-four years!”
“Again, Alan, I can’t even imagine…”
“Of course you CAN’T imagine!” Alan snapped. “Neither you, nor anyone else, has ever taken my depression seriously. You’ve always dismissed me as a drunk! You’ve always assumed that my sadness was the result of drinking! Yes, I know that drinking affects your mood, but did you ever consider that maybe it was the other way around – that I drink because I’m depressed?”
“That’s denial, Alan,” Stephanie said, tears rolling down her face. “That’s something that every alcoholic would say! That’s something my mom would have said…”
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The gas was so thick now, Patrick’s breath felt wet.
“IT’S NOT AN EXCUSE!” Alan burst, raising his gun to all. The smoke alarm’s carbon monoxide detectors started to scream – beeeeeeeeeeeee! – as the gas cloud grew, Patrick could see it. “And I’m SICK of people telling me that it is!”
“Alan, GIVE me the gun!” Patrick said, getting closer.
“NO!” Alan cried, turning the gun to his head.
“DON’T DO IT!” Stephanie shouted. “IF YOU KILL YOURSELF, YOU’LL END UP KILLING ALL OF US!”
Tears now dripped off Alan’s chin…
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“Guys, I’m so sorry,” he said –
“But I want you to know that working with you and Gwen at Checker’s … all those wonderful Saturday nights … well … they were the best time of my life.”
“Fuckkch thisch schitt!” Sharon slurred from her wheelchair, suddenly coming to life. She was UP in an instant, standing suddenly and slapping Alan across the face with the force of a prison inmate. The gun went sailing while Sharon grabbed Alan by the neck and slammed his head down like a wrestling move –
They were standing in front of the grease fryers, and though the equipment had been turned off earlier, the fryers were still hot from the day and gurgling with a deep-fry sizzle…
With her hand on the back of Alan’s neck, Sharon SLAMMED his face downward and into the hot, bubbling grease – WHOOSH! – and held it there, as Alan thrashed about. Her strength was incredible. More like a wrestler than a decrepit old woman. As Alan flailed his hands, Sharon held him in place, oblivious to the pain on her hands. The grease was hot. It burned her fingers. But more importantly, it was burning away Alan’s face, and his thrashes grew desperate as his lungs filled with oil and his skin turned to blisters.
But Sharon didn’t give a shit.
This was payback, baby, in the biggest way possible.
As Patrick and Stephanie watched in horror, Sharon held Alan in place until he stopped moving. Then, she let the body go. His face red and ruined, Alan fell backwards and onto the floor, still clutching his duffel bag with $95,000.
The body hit the ground.
Sharon, propped on the grease fryer, shot her head towards Patrick while scooping up the fallen gun in a single, fluid motion. She aimed for his face. The gas was everywhere –
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“Fucckh yewww,” she managed to slur before pulling the trigger and firing –
And the whole world exploded in flames.