Light Up Another One
Author's Note on Quality: I wrote this in 2009 while I was in college. I was 21. I had just come home from a party and scribbled this story down in a notebook in one sitting.
Against the cheap light bulbs, the kitchen looked green. The sort of hideous green used in horror movie hospital rooms. It was warm in that kitchen; there were too many bodies crammed into a small space. But the keg was in the corner, so no one wanted to leave. There were so many faces, laughing faces, confused faces, lost faces. They didn’t know they were lost. They only knew that in that particular moment they planned on getting shit-faced with the help of very cheap beer.
Cigarette smoke hovered around the heads of everyone in that house. Everywhere, people were ashing, exhaling a breath of smoke or tossing the butt to the faded linoleum floor with all the rest.
From somewhere in the house, terrible music pounded through the walls, ceiling and floors. All I could hear was the bump-bump of the bass. I had a headache. But I couldn’t leave yet. After an ugly week, I needed the weekend to end beautifully.
I watched a girl walk awkwardly to the keg in tall high heels. It was apparent that the heels of her shoes were beyond her skills of walking. Her skirt was too short, her hair too big and her neckline too low. Compared to the others around her, she was overdressed. I knew her, or at least I recognized her face from another party. I was mildly surprised she was even here.
The girl tried to refill her red party cup, but nothing came out of the tap. Freshman girls. An older guy pumped the keg for her and the piss-yellow beer flowed easily into her cup. She turned away without so much as a thank-you. The guy wasn’t cute.
My own beer had gone warm long ago, but I kept the cup with me. I always felt less awkward if I had one of those party cups in my hand. I suppose that’s why I kept that cigarette between my fingers, too. It burned slowly. Occasionally I would take a long draw, watching the tip burn bright red. I exhaled the smoke and watched it mingle with the smoke that already hung in the air. I didn’t even really like smoking. But it was something to do.
A shout from outside caught the attention of the party goers. Several young people dumped their drinks down the sink and tried to rid themselves of the underage drinking evidence. The cups soon littered the floor and countertops. The word “cops” buzzed through the room, but faded quickly. Those who panicked now tried in haste to relocate their $5 investment. I watched a guy and a girl bend down and pick up two cups from the floor at random. Disgusting.
I pushed through a narrow hallway, beer held out front, cigarette in back. My flip flops made a ripping noise as I disconnected them from the dried beer on the floor. The walls of the narrow hallway were lined with people. Some appeared to be deep in conversation, and some looked like they had lost touch with reality. They stared up at the ceiling, their eyes glazed over, possibly from a large consumption of alcohol. I accidentally bumped other people’s cups of beer. I could feel it spill on my toes.
When I emerged, it was in a slightly larger room. A large piece of plywood was in the middle of the space balanced on a couple of bar stools. There were many bodies crowded around, watching the great American college pastime: beer pong. I watched as a girl tossed her ball at the other set of cups. It flew past the table and landed on the floor where it rolled through dirt and spilled beer. A member of the other team picked the ball up between two fingers. After a quick dunk in the dirty water cup, he tossed it at his opponent’s cups. It landed inside of one. The people around the table cheered. Slightly horrified, I watched the ball be removed and the contents of the cup drained. Perhaps they have acquired a taste for filth.
I had to leave that room. I could not understand was the appeal of drinking dirty beer out of cups that many others had already put their lips on. I nudged my way through a group of people into the next room. The only light on was the black-light bulb that had been screwed into the ceiling. The white on the clothes of the people in the room glowed. I had found the source of the bad music. It was so loud that the air seemed to pulse with the beat of the bass. I could feel it throb to my core, shaking my insides with unpleasant vibrations. People were dancing, or trying to, but most only achieved a sort of uncoordinated swagger. A guy approached me and tried to dance with me. His rude movements caused him to knock my cigarette out of my hand and onto the floor. He apologized quickly and produced a new one from his pocket. I held the cigarette and he tried to light the tip. Someone bumped into him, and the flame brushed against my hand. A tingling chill prickled over my skin and crawled up my spine. I think he apologized, but I ignored him. I took the lighter from his hand and lit the new cig myself.
A commotion in the corner sent a wave of movement and confusion through the crowd. Dancer boy was pushed away and disappeared into the darkness and bodies. I didn’t return his lighter. I slipped it into my pocket.
The throbbing at my temples worsened from being in the same room as the music. I left the black-light room through the nearest exit. It was a short hallway that ended with a closed door. No one was around; I tried to open it. It was not locked. There was a stairwell leading up to the second floor of the house. I stepped onto the first step, and closed the door behind me.
A resident of the house was kind enough to leave a light on in the hallway, so I didn’t have to fall over myself trying to climb up the steps. I managed to make it up to the second floor, tripping only once on the uneven stairs. There were three doors.
I tried the one closest to me. Bathroom. Definitely a girls’ bathroom. The toilet covers and floor mats were all pink and fuzzy. The shower curtain was white with an assortment of brightly colored polka dots. It was remarkably clean… much cleaner than the rest of the house. I was surprised. Most of the girls that I met in the dormitories had no idea about cleanliness or hygiene. The last thing I wanted to see in a community bathroom was a toilet that had not been flushed. I tossed my lit cigarette onto the bathmat and shut the door.
I walked a few feet down the hall to the second door. It was locked. At least someone here had brains. I tried the doorknob of the third door and it opened easily.
It was a girl’s room. There were pictures taped all over the walls. Most were the same, two girls with their lips pursed in a ridiculous way, their hair in a giant poof, their hands mocking the peace sign. They looked less badass and more ridiculous.
There was a stack of books sitting on the desk. I glanced at the titles. Mostly books pertaining to some sort of major in marketing. I’m sure her future employers would love her drunken lip pictures on Facebook.
I set my cup down on the desk and plucked one of the pictures from the wall. Two girls, bleach blonde, orange and with stupid pursed lips. From my pocket I pulled out Dancer boy’s lighter. I held the picture by a corner and flicked on the lighter; the orange flame caught, and the edges began to curl and burn. I watched the over-tanned faces of the girls fade into a bubbling mass of ink. When the flame got too close to my hand, I dropped it on the desk to let it finish. In this same way, I burned more. There were too many pictures like that in the world. A few would not be missed.
The bass from the music continued to bump-bump. I could feel it reverberate through the floorboards. I pulled a textbook to me and opened it. I ripped out the title page and held it in front of me. The paper was glossy and still smelled relatively new. This world doesn’t need more business people. I set fire to the corner of the paper and tossed it to the floor. I pulled the next couple of pages out and lit them up, then allowed them to slip from my hand and land on the floor. I resisted the temptation to burn more pages. I knew that soon it wouldn’t matter how much time I spent burning away useless pages of information one by one.
I noticed a shelf lined with books on the wall. I scanned the titles. Mostly transparent teen drama about vampires and unrequited love. I pulled one down at random. I lit and relit the pages to keep the fire going. I couldn’t help but marvel at the beautiful way the pages blackened slowly, curling into themselves before turning into a black dust.
I set the book down on the desk and looked back up on the shelf. One book caught my eye. I grabbed it and tucked it under my arm. She must have read it for a class or something. Jane Eyre. I couldn’t let that book burn with the other poorly written filth.
I grabbed another book off the shelf and set fire to the cover. I watched briefly as the author’s name that was plastered in large white letters on the front disappeared into the flame. I turned around and tossed the book onto the bed and willed it to keep burning. The glowing edged of the pages went out quickly. I sighed and looked around the room once more. I saw a bottle of nail polish remover on the dresser. I smiled.
I grabbed it and turned back to the bed. After unscrewing the cap, I poured the liquid over the bedspread and onto the pillow. More. I needed more. A bottle of perfume was on her nightstand. I picked up it and laughed at the brand. Some famous actress trying to make more money by selling their own perfume. It was slippery, but I managed to pull off the top of the bottle. I held it to my nose and breathed in deeply. The smell stung inside of me, giving me a brief light-headed sensation. I dumped this around her bed as well.
I pulled the lighter from my pocket and clicked on the flame. I watched it for a moment as it danced around. As I lowered the flame to the wet spots on the bedspread, it caught. The flame slowly made its way around the network of flammable female products. The smell of the perfume intoxicated me. It was awful.
I knew this needed to be done. I was never so sure of anything in my life. I smiled as I watched the small fire on the bed grow larger and larger. For a moment, my mind went wild, imaging the rest of the house burning to the ground. I saw the utter chaos of the partygoers fleeing from the house. I saw the black smoke pouring out from the roof and tainting the light polluted sky. I saw the way the flames would explode out of the windows, sending shattered glass to the ground. I saw the wooden frame of the house blacken and weaken, and the roof collapse into itself. I loved the satisfied feeling of destroying filth. I felt a little like Rochester’s wife.
After lighting the delicate material of the curtains on fire, I picked up my red party cup and left the room.
Downstairs, I pushed through masses of people that were all crammed together in the small space. I held Jane Eyre close to my chest. I’d never stolen anything from a party before.
I found the front door and let myself out. On the porch, two awkward looking freshmen boys were digging through their wallets, searching for money. One boy already held a red party cup. I tossed my warm beer out and pushed the cup into the other boy’s hands. I don’t remember if he said thank you or not. They hurried through the front door to join the party.
Two older guys were smoking near the front porch. I bummed a cigarette from them, and in exchange handed over Dancer boy’s lighter. I walked away, the cigarette dangling from between my lips. I held Jane Eyre in both hands and cracked open the cover. With a smile, I read the first page. The orange glow of the city gave me plenty of light.
The screams began quickly. I turned to look back at my work. Party goers were pouring out of the front door. Orange flames danced up from the house, lighting up the area around it. Already I could feel the oppressive heat of the fire press against my skin. I shivered and rubbed my hand across my arm, feeling the goosebumps that began to cover my body. Black smoke rose from one area of the house and lingered in the air above our heads.
