Burn Me Down

The Spotify playlist “Calming Music for Your Walk in Nature” continued into its second hour as I stared out at the open highway and the lush green trees that decorated its sides. The sun was just rising above the horizon and the sky was brightening into a clear blue as my mind recited the same three phrases over and over again: “I am a wide-open expanse. I am an iceberg in the arctic. I am calm.” Breathing out a deep, meditative exhale, I switched the music to a playlist named: “Ocean Sounds for the Sea Creature Inside All of Us”.

My mind strayed from clear open highway to thoughts of the ocean with its vast open waters. Soon, the space between my palms and the steering wheel moisten and I had to switch the music again. This time I chose “Ambient Music to Study to”—mellow tones that made me feel as if I were floating—and the water quickly evaporated. The therapist-prescribed phrases stopped and I turned my mind to the day’s task: a meeting with my boss—Emily Stoller—to discuss a project that could span the next six months. This, unfortunately, required me to drive roughly three hours from the organic foods research lab that I worked at, in Albany, into the city where the company headquarters sat on the fifth floor on one of those less-famous Manhattan skyscrapers that stood next to the ones everyone talks about. My project idea: a meal plan revolving around the idea of relaxing nutrition-filled meals, focused on balancing the body’s blood sugar and hormones.

To be honest, by that time, I was a bit sick of the word “relaxing” and it various, commonly-used synonyms, but—after what happened last year—I understood the need for a calm and mentally nurturing lifestyle.

The three-hour drive ended quietly—it had been my first time on a long-distance drive since the incident—which seemed to quell the dual-layered nervousness I felt about finally returning to the city and presenting my idea to Emily. The new company headquarters had a modern minimalist look with a lot of floor-to-ceiling glass partitions that made the entire office look like one large room. It was my first time there—I had worked out of the old headquarters in Williamsburg before my transfer. 

The meeting with Emily took all of five minutes. She flipped through my presentation a few times in silence before speaking: “Isn’t the act of eating food supposed to relax you? Just in general? Like good food, not bad food. What merit does this idea really have if normal food does a good enough job of relaxing someone after a long day anyway? Is there really a need for meals specifically aimed at lowering anxiety?”

Rejected. Five weeks of planning and food design disappeared into thin air.

With that, Emily gave me a week to prepare a stronger, more eye-catching project and send her a four-month roadmap that laid out my tasks from conception to meal construction to completion.

Dejected, but trying to remember my therapist’s advice about rejection, I dragged myself out of Emily’s office and into the elevator. In the lobby, on the way to my car, I ran into Taylor, my first boss, who now ran her own desserts team.

“Hey! Long time!” she said in her usual loud and jovial tone. “What are you doing out here at the main office?” 

“I, uh, presented a project idea that my group was working on to Emily,” I said, trying to maintain a neutral face.

Taylor blew a dramatic sigh. “And how did that go?”

“Rejected,” I chuckled a bit, trying to hide my disappointment.

“Rough,” Taylor said. “Emily’s a fuckin’ hard-ass.”

I nodded but stayed silent. 

“What are you doing now?”  Taylor smiled sympathetically.

“Got that three-hour drive back to Albany,” I said with a sigh and a smile.

“Sounds like you ain’t getting any work done today. Why don’t we get a drink?” I checked my watch, but Taylor pushed it away. “It’s almost lunch time, why don’t we get some food while we’re at it.”

She led me to a tiny, red-bricked restaurant in Little Italy where both the cashier/chef and the server knew Taylor by name. She ordered for me with a smile, “you still like lasagna, don’t you?” Then, even before we could sit down, the server—a college student by the name of Carl—handed each of us a glass of wine and placed the bottle down at our table. “So, how are things going?” she asked when we finally situated ourselves, “things happened so fast, we never got to talk since your transfer.”

“Everything’s fine,” I nodded, but it seemed as if something on my face left her unconvinced. She looked at me sideways. “I mean it,” I forced a chuckle. “I’m not going to say I was always good, but right now, besides the fact that Emily bulldozed my project, I’m doing fine.”

“I was surprised when you filed for that transfer into the countryside,” she took a sip of wine, “Albany? Really?” she gave me a look.

“I actually think it’s quite nice,” I said. “I live about thirty minutes north of Albany. I have my own house with a huge yard and everything is so…peaceful out there,” I said, not really sure if that was true. “There’s a lot more open space, fresh air.”

“Whatever you say,” Taylor said, “but hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy for you. I mean I don’t blame you after the fire. Honestly, I still check outside before I go to sleep at night.”

My mind shot back to that night and my nostrils instinctively flared out at the memories of burning flesh. The sound of crumbling buildings, guttural screams, and cries for help echoed in my mind. It’s all your fault, I thought as I stared down at the navy-blue linoleum flooring of the restaurant. I felt my thoughts begin to spiral and shook myself out of it. There’s no way you can have an episode here, no. I downed my glass of wine and the server appeared, placing rather large helpings of Italian food in front of us. “I still think about it from time to time,” I said, after the server had returned to the kitchen. “I mean…of course I do. How are you though?”

“Fine,” Taylor said. “Great. My team is working on this strawberry matcha cheesecake, lactose-free, trying to cut down the calories and sugar to make it healthier for Cheryl’s team, which has been a pain, but I get to taste test strawberry matcha cheesecake all day, so I can’t complain.”

“And things at home?” I asked before thinking. I suddenly felt like my therapist—the only person I’d regularly spoken to this last year—and quickly changed the subject. The meal progressed smoothly with us talking about work, reminiscing about old times and company functions, and some news in the media. The first bottle of wine was replaced by a second, and then a third, and then a fourth. Eventually, I checked the time and saw that two hours had already passed. “Hey, umm,” I felt myself stumble over my words a bit. “Do you need to get back? I don’t want you to, but I also don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Oh, I already texted my secretary,” Taylor grinned mischievously. “Honestly, I know it’s Monday, but I needed a day off.”

“The higher-ups hounding you?”

“Oh no,” Taylor shook her head and slapped her hand down on the table. “Nothing with work.” She paused for a moment, contemplating whether she wanted to elaborate. “Fine, I’ll tell you, what the hell. I recently found out that my fiancé of six months has been cheating on me with our downstairs neighbor who is also our dog groomer.”

“Fuck…that sucks.”

“Effectively, both my boyfriend and my dog have had her hands all over them.” She refilled her glass, then half-slammed the empty bottle back onto the table.

“Fuck…” I said emptying my own glass. “So, what happened? What did you do?”

Taylor drank from her glass and gave a quizzical frown. “Nothing.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I literally found out last night and he’s been gone on a business trip since Sunday,” Taylor finished her glass already.

“I know one thing you’re gonna do,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re getting a stronger drink.” We paid the bill and moved quickly to a bar three streets down, a bit off the beaten path, but one that we knew well and one that our co-workers were not going to show up at. Taylor seemed to feel relief in being able to talk to someone—something I had avoided doing two years prior which most likely prolonged the pain and suffering—and I felt happy knowing I could lend a sympathetic ear to a friend, especially since I’d been through something similar.

It seemed that most of the other tenants in her building had known about the affair, either by seeing the dog groomer and her fiancé making out in the entryway or hearing their loud brazen moans through the paper-thin walls. It seemed that discretion was not one of their concerns. Most of the neighbors tried to keep quiet, afraid of becoming too involved in the situation, until Belinda (the person who lived on their same floor and who Taylor had helped get a job) came to her the day before and told her everything. “She even had pictures of them making out in the middle of the stairs…just in case I didn’t believe her,” Taylor gave a wry chuckle. “There was even a picture of Marcy with both hands down his pants…in the room I get my mail.” Taylor’s eyes were red as she drained her gin and tonic. “Bartender!”

“Fuck those two,” I could hear myself slurring the words. “I’m so sorry dawg.”

“I should’ve known,” Taylor said. “I should’ve known. Willoughby barked at both of them the first time he met them. Dogs always know.”

“Dogs always know,” I repeated. Suddenly, I felt a vibration in my pocket and pulled my phone up to my face with a bit more difficulty than I’d like to admit. “One second, my therapist is calling.” I walked outside into the chilly evening air and reclined against a streetlight before answering. “Hello?”

“Hey Sam, your tracker says you’re still in the city, I know it’s annoying, but I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

I sighed heavily and felt an irritated buzzing in the back of my head. “I’m fine Janice, I just ran into my old boss on my way out and we decided to catch up and hang out.” 

“Is everything…good?”

“Yes, Janice,” I was sure she could hear my drunken slurring. “We just had a few drinks.”

“You know you’re not supposed to…never mind,” Janice spoke in a neutral, calm tone. It was a tone I secretly hated since it reminded me of the cold, unaffected way Grace used to speak to me. I quickly snapped back at myself. She’s only doing her job. “As long as you’re having a good time, I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“You mean my government appointed therapy session?” I spoke a little more severely than I had intended. “Sorry, yes. I’ll be home by then. I’m having a good time, sorry to worry you.”

“No need to apologize Sam,” Janice spoke with more determination. “I know it can be annoying to have an authority figure breathing down your neck just for a spontaneous hang out with a friend. I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re just doing your job,” I responded. “I know I’m supposed to report any changes in my schedule to you and that you really fought to give me the freedom I have now. Thank you, it’s been really good catching up with Taylor, I feel…” I thought about how to vocalize my mental state, something Janice had taught me. “I feel good. She’s going through a hard time and that…that somehow makes me feel less alone…not that I’m happy that she’s going through a hard time or anything…I just…” I sighed.

“It’s natural to feel connection when you’ve both been through difficult experiences, it’s a very common way people connect and develop deeper relationships,” Janice said. “I’m glad you’re being more social.”

“Thanks,” I smiled and blew a stream of wispy steam into the cold night air.

“Have a good night, Sam.”

“You too Janice, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Taylor bumped into me and pulled a box of cigarettes out of her purse. “What’s the hold up? You good?”

“Yeah, yeah, just a check in.”

“What? You got a girlfriend or something?”

“No, no, it really was my therapist, we got an appointment today and she was calling to confirm.”

“Alright,” Taylor shrugged. She lit her cigarette, took a deep pull, and breathed the smoke into the air. “What about that though? You seeing anyone? Want to see anyone? Just stop seeing someone?”

“I broke up with my ex around the time of the big fire,” I said. “It was…it was painful.”

Taylor waited for me to elaborate. “Well? I’ve just poured out all my dirty laundry for you, you can’t just leave me hanging like this.”

“I can’t really say what she was feeling,” I said. “I think she just got bored, stopped talking to me, but also didn’t want the relationship to end. I got needy and desperate by the end of it. For months, I held onto crumbling feelings and overanalyzed every single word or action. I’d constantly try to figure out what I’d done wrong, I’d even ask her sometimes and she’d just get mad at me and tell me it was all in my head while also reducing the amount of time we could spend together. After a while it felt like she hated everything we did together, I would never get invited to hang out with her friends—like she was embarrassed of me—and she never wanted to talk about anything. But really, I wasn’t the best partner either. By the end, I was needy, jealous, always in my head, wracked with insecurities…But even through all that I still hung on, denying what was right in front of me: that the relationship ended a long time ago and I just didn’t want to admit my own failure.” I felt proud being able to vocalize all this now, when just eight months ago I couldn’t say any of this, even to a stranger.

“Sounds like a bitch,” Taylor spat bluntly.

I smiled, “Thanks.”

“Hey, beautiful,” A loud, swagger-filled voice came from behind us. “Oh, hey, who is this?” He stared at me as he adjusted the tie on his light-grey suit, then extended a hand to me and introduced himself—a name I immediately forgot. I shook his hand and he turned to Taylor. “How about it princess? I got some much nicer drinks back at my apartment.” 

I immediately identified the disgust and dismay on Taylor’s face and wished this night didn’t have to end on such a sour note. I wished that this man was anywhere other than standing here, occupying our personal space. Suddenly, an image of him standing atop a snowy mountain, shivering and alone, appeared in my head.

Taylor’s eyes widened as she pulled on my shirt. “Where’d he go?”

The grey-suit was gone, no sign of him anywhere. My mind sobered up immediately and went into overdrive. Oh fuck, oh fuck, you sent him to Everest! He’s gonna die, no one lives up there, it’s way too cold up there. Bring him back. Now! Think! Think, think, think! What did he look like? That cocky, punchable face. That grossly expensive suit. He’s here, standing in front of us, back where he was just a few seconds ago.

Suddenly, a shivering groan exhaled in front of us. The man in the light-grey suit was back, this time covered in snow. His eyes wide in shock, body shivering and bunched together for warmth, unable to speak.

Taylor jumped back and stared at the snow-covered man. “What the…Sam! Do you see what I’m seeing?”

The man moaned weakly, grabbing ahold of the sidewalk. He couldn’t have been there for more than ten seconds. My mind—still in panic mode—reeled, looking for a plausible excuse. “I…I…I’m fuckin’ drunk,” I tried to slur my voice more than usual and put that yard-long stare in my eyes. “What the fuck?”

Taylor closed her eyes and took a pull from her cigarette. “I need a cheeseburger.”

After stopping by a 24-hour McDonalds, then spending the night at Taylor’s apartment—she no longer slept there and was staying with a friend, so she graciously gave me the keys for the night and told me to take anything I wanted from the closet—I drove back home just in time to my therapy session. The entire drive back, I beamed triumphantly at the fact that I could finally talk about my relationship with Grace without those bitter, uncontrolled feelings. I had finally been able to see it for what it was: A relationship that wasn’t meant to be.

“How was yesterday?” Janice asked.

“Good…for the most part it was really good,” I said, trying not to make eye contact.

“Something happen?”

“Well,” I fidgeted a bit in my seat. “I might have sent a guy to the top of Mount Everest…for like five seconds, ten seconds max.”

Janice took a second to process the sentence and then sat up in her chair. “Tell me what happened.”

After the brief story, Janice sighed and took a moment to think. Then, she shrugged. “I’ll let this one slide. Technically, I should report it, but it didn’t seem like anyone got hurt and—from what you told me—you displayed progress in controlling your powers.”

I smiled and a wave of relief came over me. No penalties, no travel restrictions or house arrest, no government agents watching my every move. I leaned slightly to the right and stared out at the two special agents sitting on my lawn—well, at least they’re only here for the hour.

“Tell me about your conversation with Taylor,” Janice crossed her legs in her chair while preparing her notepad, “when she brought up Grace.”

“I handled it well,” I said. “I felt like I was able to look at the relationship more objectively as a whole, and not hold onto my own perspective and regrets.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

“She just asked me if I was dating anyone and I talked a little about the breakup, or the things that led to our breakup. I’ve been doing what you’ve said and tried to look at things from all perspectives, not just my own, and I can see now that I wasn’t the best partner. I think I tried really hard to be a perfect partner, but I know I fell extremely short of that and then, by the end of it all, I was so inside my own head, I don’t even know if I was properly listening to her or understanding her need.”

“Sam, in relationships—friends, family, or significant others—there are very few instances where the fault lies solely on one side,” Janice said. “You did your best with what you had, and—like a lot of relationships—it didn’t work out. No need to blame yourself, no need to blame anyone. That’s just how relationships go sometimes.”

“Thanks doc,” I said with a grimace. “I’ll try to remember that.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and shook my head, trying to repel a self-immolating thought.

“What’s wrong?” Janice asked. She had figured out my ticks relatively quickly and always picked up on them whenever they happened, something that I found both commendable and annoying. 

“I feel like normal people don’t really need a year’s worth of therapy to get through one bad breakup,” I sighed, looking down. Janice was about to speak, but I stopped her, “I know, I know, I’m not normal, I burned down half a city because of that one bad breakup.”

“Sam, most people don’t get a year’s worth of therapy for their breakups because they just refuse to go to therapy. I’m pretty sure most people would benefit from post-breakup therapy actually.”

I nodded.

“How did it feel being in the city again?”

“Strange,” I admitted. “I felt…guilty. I was the one who destroyed everything, but no one knew it. Taylor was nice to me, even bought me lunch, while explaining that she still looks out the window every night to make sure the skyline isn’t on fire.” I stared at the ground.

“That’s why we’re doing this,” Janice placed a hand on my shoulder. “To give you control over your powers and make sure that you don’t lose yourself like that ever again.”

After the therapy session, I clocked into a half-day at work, explained to my manager that my project had been rejected, and set to brainstorming a new one. An e-mail from Emily—sent that morning—explained that she wanted a more attractive meal plan, perhaps one based off of a current and popular dieting trend or possibly one that incorporated cheaper options that they could market as a low-cost—the cost per meal that Emily wanted was starkly low—but still healthy, meal plan option. Frustration quickly wrapped itself around me as my mind raced through all the ways fad dieting normally didn’t work and could also risk long-term damage to one’s health, but I quickly practiced the calm breathing exercises Janice had taught me and slowly resigned myself to Emily’s project requirements—she was the boss after all.

I turned to my desktop and searched online for a list of the current popular dieting trends just as my phone vibrated, buzzing twice before returning to its inert state. I sighed, wondering if it was another prescriptive e-mail from Emily.

My eyes flashes across a text message notification from Grace. Suddenly, a row of glass measuring cups in the test kitchen exploded—the noise snapped the entire office to attention. My co-workers approached the kitchen cautiously and with a collective bewilderment as I closed my eyes and recited three phrases in my mind. I am a wide-open expanse. I am an iceberg in the arctic. I am calm. I am a wide-open expanse. Why is she texting me? I am an iceberg in the arctic. We haven’t talked in a year. I am calm. I am calm. I am calm.

I stood up and helped clean up all the broken glass before returning to my phone and cautiously looking at Grace’s message.

“I know it’s been a while and it’s totally understandable if you don’t want to talk to me, but I was wondering if we could talk sometime. I hope you haven’t blocked me.”

I closed the message and deleted it. No, I thought, nothing good will come from this.

That day a dissatisfied sourness sat on the fringes of my mind as I tried to focus on work. I discussed possible new projects with my manager but nothing seemed quite right and, by the time work ended, I still didn’t have a functioning idea. That night, I avoided my phone and played video games—a new Monster Hunter—until I was tired and went to sleep.

The next day, with a good night’s sleep and some fresh ideas from my co-workers, I set to work on a few preliminary meals for a low-cost, but healthy, meal plan. Frustration hit quickly when none of the food items came out tasting good. I tried a few fixes, but my manager told me that the recipes were too complex for a deliverable meal kit. 

As I drove home that night, I felt that sourness from the day before resurface in my stomach. I tried to take the rest of the night off and relax, but my mind continuously thought up issues with my ideas and worry set in about the looming second meeting with Emily I had in just five days.

Friday came faster than I expected and I still had not found a solution to the taste-to-complexity issue of the project. I also had played Monster Hunter until four in the morning and only had three hours of sleep. My fatigued brain sputtered in and out of coherent thoughts all day until my manager came down to help me through the final hours of work. We had the pieces of a good idea, but I would need to work all weekend if I was going to have something presentable for Emily on Monday. It was nine by the time I got home to my secluded house in the woods and was walking up the front porch when my phone buzzed again with a message from Grace.

“Sam, I really understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to me after everything that happened between us, but I just hope you’re doing well and succeeding in life.”

I deleted the message again.

Why is she texting me now? Things were over, there’s nothing to talk about, nothing to salvage. I never want to talk to her again, not just because of resentment, but because it just reminds me of everything I did, that frantic despair that suffocated me every day for eight months and turned me into such a…such a…a stupid person.

I felt the sourness begin to gnaw at my head from the inside and a headache developed that night in my fourth hour of gaming. I began to worry that Grace wouldn’t stop texting me and hoped that if I ignored her long enough, she would get the message eventually.

Emily flipped through my project proposal with purpose and quiet deliberation. I could feel the nerves bunching up all over my body in anticipation of her verdict. “It seems to fulfill everything I’ve asked for,” she said, her tone wasn’t one of approval. 

“Thanks,” the word issued from my mouth before I could think.

“I’ll let you know how to proceed by the end of the week,” Emily said. “Thank you.”

“Did something happen?” I asked, not sure if it was my place.

“I’m waiting on another group’s presentation, several of their scientists are out on vacation and one is on maternity leave, so I might ask your team to assist them in execution.”—Basically: I don’t want this even though I asked for it and now you guys will be the gophers for another team—in gentler words.

I stood outside a bar before deciding that driving home slightly inebriated was not what I needed right now. Instead of alcohol, I stopped in at a Chinese restaurant that I thought about at least once a week since moving away.

“Sam, can we talk?” Grace had messaged me half-way through my noodle soup.

A mixture of frustration, fear that the texts would never end, and my own feelings of guilt for the way things ended compelled me to answer. “What do you want to talk about?”

The response bubble immediately appeared after I’d sent my message—the three dots shifting from white to black, giving off the feeling of progress or movement. After a minute, the bubble disappeared, then reappeared, then disappeared again. I regretted my response already, but before I could shove the phone into my pocket, her next message appeared.

“I just wanted to apologize for what happened between us. I was stressed and unhappy with my life and instead of talking it out with you, I gave up on us. I ran away and I’m sorry. I did things I wasn’t proud of and locked you out, but I still care about you. We were something special and I still believe that. So, I wanted to see how you were doing and maybe see if we could meet up sometime.”

I felt my chest drum fast as two voice in my head tried to shout over each other. You’re talking to her, this is progress. Why the fuck are you talking to her? Now you can put this behind you, get closure. Stop! Just fucking stop! Block her! Block her! She wants to talk things out, you should give her a chance. I started typing back. “I realized too late what had become of our relationship and my part in it. There were so many months of me spiraling through depression and self-doubt because I couldn’t get through to you. The thoughts I had…I was at the lowest I’d ever been and I still wanted things to work out between us. I wanted us to be what we were before all the problems started. But it was too late for that, and I know I was to blame for a lot of it. I didn’t hear you when you wanted space, I didn’t consider what you were going through, I was just desperate. So, I removed myself and I still think that is for the best.” She started typing again, but I had more to say. “In terms of meeting up and talking, I don’t think I’m in a place where I can do that. I hope you’re well. I really do. I hope you’re happy. But, I can’t.”

“Don’t be like that, Sam. I was just as much to blame as you were. I ran away and left you alone and I’m sorry. I know I hurt you. Our relationship was so strong and deep because we really did understand each other, but it just didn’t work, I’m sorry. I figured you weren’t going to want to meet up, but I also hope you’re doing well and succeeding in life. Maybe, one day, we can be friends.”

I sighed, feeling that this was a good moment of closure, perhaps for both of us. It was definitely a moment where I had finally spoken my mind, what I truly thought, and acknowledged my feelings. “I appreciate your words,” I typed. “I truly hope that you’re doing well and will find happiness in the future if you haven’t already. I truly wish you all the best.” I sighed, satisfied, and placed the phone back down onto the table, ready to finish my meal. Quickly, the phone buzzed again. Another message from Grace. Some ending politeness, I thought.

“By the way, there is a dress, that I think you have, I’m pretty sure it was in one of those boxes you accidentally took with you after the breakup. I understand if you don’t want to see me again, but I was wondering if there was some way I could get it back. Maybe you could hand it off to one of our friends? I really want it back.”

My mind stopped for a full minute. Then, in a rush of anger and regret, I slammed the phone down onto the wooden table. The cracking of the glass screen echoed throughout the restaurant and I gave everyone who looked my way a sheepish smiled and apologetic eyes. The servers turned away from me and I was thankful for the privacy. My embarrassment was quickly upended as my entire body pulsed with anger. It felt as if my skin was squirming and each individual hair was standing on edge—as if an electric current were running through them. I felt my body heating up and my mind released a deluge of irate thoughts.

All she wanted was the dress. She fucking cooked up a shitty apology and made you think it meant something for a piece of clothing. You fucking idiot. You fell for it. You thought she was being earnest—an earnest apology: I ran away and I’m sorry. I was stress and gave up on us. Fucking stressed. You’re an idiot Sam! You’re an idiot for believing she actually felt bad about abandoning you. Remember when she stopped calling you? When she stopped smiling at you? Remember when she told you it was all in your head? That you were overthinking things? That these sad, pitiful feelings were your problem and yours alone? That you shouldn’t bring them up to her and ruin her day with your bullshit? Remember when she would eventually get mad at you for just trying to talk to her. And, all that time, she wouldn’t even look you in the eyes. 

I shook, but memories of the fire kept me alert, kept me from losing control. I paid my bill quickly and rushed outside before imagining myself standing in my front yard. At first it didn’t work, the thought was interrupted by images of myself setting ablaze, images of an inescapable fire. Small flames engulfed onto my jacket, but I focused in, quieted myself and thought about the calming green grass that grew underneath the trees in my front yard and when I opened my eyes, I was there—standing in front of my secluded house, a three-hour drive from where I’d left my car.

I pulled my jacket off, stomped out the fire, then dropped down in the middle of the grass and closed my eyes. Why are you feeling all this rage. Just a few days ago you were making progress, you were past all this. Why? Why are you still like this? You were over her. You were over all of this. You were getting better, moving on with your life. This…

My mind, unable to stay in one place, searched the house for Grace’s box of things, the box I had found and never gotten rid of. Why did I never get rid of it? You should have thrown it out or burn it immediately! Why did I keep it? An image of the large cardboard box setting ablaze planted itself in my mind. You were over her. You stopped thinking about her. Flames catching more of the box. Why are you so mad? She shouldn’t have this kind of sway over your emotions anymore. The cardboard withering as it turned black. You shouldn’t be mad. You shouldn’t feel anything for her anymore. It’s been a year! How long do you need? The flames catching onto the clothes inside and growing larger. She shouldn’t be able to make you this mad! You shouldn’t feel this way anymore! Why are you so…!

A flickering crackle pulled me out of my mental spiraling and I stared up to see a billowing red-orange blaze consume my guest room and quickly spread across the wooden two-story house until the flames enveloped everything. Last time, in the city a year ago, blood pumped into my ears as I frantically tried to stop the fire, contain it, snuff it out before it could grow any bigger. But each time I did, a torrent of violent, self-immolating thoughts bit at me with sharp jagged teeth and spread misery all over my body until the flames grew taller, wider, uncontrollable, unstoppable.

Now, as I stared at my burning house and the destruction of all my worldly possessions, my mind stopped. All thoughts disappeared and I sat there, in silence, staring into the flames until what was once my house was not a smoldering pile of rubble.

I looked around and nothing but the house had been burned. The greenery surrounding my isolated house in the woods was completely untouched. Walking through the house, blackened wood and piles of ash were all that decorated the barely-standing frame of the house. After aimlessly visiting every room, feeling nothing, processing nothing, I found a small space in what used to be the dining room, laid down, and fell asleep.

The next thing I knew I was being gently rocked awake. “Sam?” Janice’s voice echoed above me.

I opened my eyes and sat up. “Oh, hi Janice, how’re you?”

Her face was one of confusion and disbelief. “I’m fine,” she said. “How are you?”

I looked down and sighed. “I felt pretty bad last night, but today…I don’t really feel much.”

Janice paused for a moment, then extended her hand to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t really,” I said, “it’s pretty embarrassing. But I think I should.”