3 – The Wood That Burned (FIREWOOD)

I stood in the backyard, in the middle of it all, staring right at the grave. People donning black formals surrounded me — weirdly enough — in a spiral, gazing at the grave. If the spiral wasn’t already weird, none of them blinked even once. The sky was bright and sunny, but that was all above us — only one ray of sunshine fell and that too on the grave.

“EMILIO SANGRADA ~ 1928 – 1988” 

That one sight took me back to 25 years ago — when Mom died. I was a 5 year old in the midst of tall, towering adults again — not knowing what to do or where to go from there on. 

An hour passed, all of us stood still, glaring intensely at the grave. Two hours passed, nothing changed. Three passed, and the change in time was the only difference. I looked around me. No sound, no movement — the surroundings looked devoid of life. I seemed to be the only living and breathing counterpart of the dead world.

Four hours passed, and the sky above us slowly started to darken, shedding the sun and its light and replacing it with a deep, black shadow — no stars, no moon. At once, all the people who were spiralled around me, shot their heads up towards the sky, and kept their gaze at it. Barely a minute later, bullets of raindrops fired themselves down, making the skin red on impact. The people maintained their upward gaze and stiff posture, with pellets of water making their eyes the colour of blood.

I looked at the grave. That was my bass – drop, zoom – out moment — the ray of sunshine, out of nowhere, was still directed at the grave— highlighting the engravings. Drenched in the downpour, I  turned back and took a step, knowing something was off. As soon as I retreated, the people swiftly dropped their heads and shot me with their stares. I stopped in my tracks, clueless as to what on earth was going on. After almost staring me to death, they looked back at the grave and this time, were pointing at it.

I looked at them and for a minute hesitated to look back. Cautiously and slowly, I turned back. 

In the shower of sunlight was, not the grave, but a silhouette of a chubby, bald man. My eyes grew wider and my fists clenched tighter. My fingernails dug into my palm, sending a stream of blood down my wrist. I began to, not question, but utterly dismiss the fact that Dad had come back to life. I froze in that spot with my mouth wide open — the rain drops trickled in and simultaneously flowed out, hanging off the lower lip, ready to drip down and splatter.

The silhouette grew larger, eventually outgrowing the sunlit patch of grass. Once the shadows disappeared, out emerged Dad, in the most perfect state ever, limping towards me. He was limping faster than ever, with a gun in his right hand, and not a drop of rain had any effect on him. The people’s heads followed him as he approached me, with the same gazing eyes. 

He stopped a foot away from me, staring into my eyes, but it felt as if his gaze was shooting straight into my soul. With the same shady eyes, he stood staring in front of me, and I stood in close proximity opposite him — mouth open, feet cemented and wrist bleeding — with the sea of lifeless onlookers peculiarly gawping at us. 

His right hand rose up, till it was perfectly in line with my eyes, in which lay the gun.

“This gun, is your path to a future. You take it, the future’s up to you. You leave it for me, the future’s up to me”, he said, in a calm and composed voice. The Italian accent was hard to not recognise. 

I stared at the gun. It lay there silently, waiting for someone to pick it up and and change that. I looked at Dad. He had a look of curiosity and authority on his face. I nodded my head sideways, put my palm on the gun, and pushed his hand down. His eyes followed the gun, with a releasing sigh.

“I expected better from you, John”, he said, in a clearly disappointed tone.

“I made you aware of the consequences. They shall take place now”, he said, in a straight voice.

His hand shot up, right between my eyes, a little above, right between my eyebrows, aimed at the centre of my forehead. My view was the barrel of the gun behind which was Dad’s unflinching face. My heart was running a 100 kilometre marathon inside. Knowing the danger at hand, I tried to retaliate or shelter myself, but that was all on the inside — the fear was not even slightly translated outside. I just stood there.

“Hell or heaven, that’s God’s choice — just hope he makes the right one”, he said.

The barrel cocked back. The hammer pulled away. The safety switch fell down. The finger positioned on the trigger.

Boom.

I opened my eyes in the most harsh way, making it seem like the eyeballs popped out a bit. My chest kept thumping non – stop, the sound of which was as loud as a speaker’s woofer. My forehead and face felt wet. With my shivering hand, I wiped it off and brought it in front. Sweat, not raindrops. My hand was covered in dry blood — hard as an engraving.

My whole body was drawn tight — ever inch taught with fear. My eyes were in a haze — totally blinded. The numbness made me forget the soft cushioning of the bed underneath me. The beed sheet lay in my tight grasp, between my palms and fingertips.

That was exactly how I remembered the funeral — standing in between people who were total strangers to me, yet taking in their gazes and stares. The dream perfectly summarised the way I felt, although only I could see it. The inability to figure out the next step, the internal battle of morals, the constant fear of the world I was drawn into. And that ran through to my agitated self on the bed — lost in mind, soul and purpose.