When I was a teenager I had a friend who liked to set fire to spiders. He always stored this rusty Zippo lighter in his worn, darned tube socks, concealed efficiently by his never ironed ankle endangering chinos. His old man had given him the light before he took off. It was a fine silver thing, not real silver of course and half the paint was chipping off at the corners, exposing the black under-layer ever so slightly, but it was still impressive to us. He used to find the spiders between the pipes on the science block and use the lighter to burn off their legs. He said it made a very satisfying noise when their bodies succumbed to the flames. I never much liked watching him do it, always gave me chills, but I never much worried about it either.
Tom, my friend, had these scars on his face. At first to me they looked like pink, wrinkled enlarged freckles. Later on, circular burn marks. He used to make up a story every time anyone asked about them, a prank gone wrong or a 4th of July accident, I even once heard him telling Kim Michel that he'd gotten the scars rescuing a puppy from a burning building. It used to bug me that I never legitimately knew how he'd really come to have such a blatant disfigurement. As I half-watched him torturing those arachnids, my eyes glazing over as they did so often as I was growing up, I'd notice something different about Tom. His eyes never seemed to focus at all.
We were camping out and sipping on a few brews once a few years later and I asked him about the scars. Face set like concrete I tried to seem genuine, in the hope I’d see the same courtesy back. He sat quietly for a moment - his expressionless features studying mine with a look of curious amusement, and then he began;
'When I was a baby my mum used to burn me. She'd light up a
cig, inhale, and then she'd walk over to my crib, stare me in
my tear-filled eyes and stub it out on my face. She assumes I don't
remember this of course, thinks I repressed it all to protect my psyche I
suppose, or maybe as I was just too damn young. But I do remember. And now I
have these scars as you can see, these perfect stamps of psychopathic evil all
over my face, leading down from my eyes like fiery tear tracks. They’re
constantly reminding me of the insanity hidden within my family - shamelessly
exposed on my face. Sometimes when she's pissing me off I think about how it
would feel to pin her down and burn her, let her see what it's like. I can just
imagine her hysterical screams. I imagine she'd cry, she cries at most things
anyway, and then I could place the burning butt over her fallen tears, like she
used to do with me. I'd make a game of it, all the while humming to the tune of
her absurd howling. It's a shame I don't smoke really.'
He was like this, Tom, well-worded, calculated - insane. I knew it from a young age but I lacked something vital to make other friends; a personality. So I stuck by Tom until we were 18. We had a brief fight over a girl in the tenth grade which obviously he won, but aside from that people called us best friends. I didn't see Tom after I went off to college until he was arrested. The police called me on the morning of the 17th of December and asked me to come into the station, the station of my old town in Maine. I arrived two days later having needed to wait for the weekend to avoid being in trouble with my firm. After I arrived I remember walking up those stairs in a frenzied panic, running over parking tickets and tax aversion and pens I'd occasionally stolen from the bank, trying desperately to figure out just what I'd done wrong to be there. I never would have guessed the real reason.
Maine had been in the news a lot in recent months. There was a serial killer they referred to as 'The inferno' going around burning women alive. I suppose in a way I should have put the two together; Tommy, The inferno - but my narcissism prevented me from seeing the connection.
He was like this, Tom, well-worded, calculated - insane. I knew it from a young age but I lacked something vital to make other friends; a personality. So I stuck by Tom until we were 18. We had a brief fight over a girl in the tenth grade which obviously he won, but aside from that people called us best friends. I didn't see Tom after I went off to college until he was arrested. The police called me on the morning of the 17th of December and asked me to come into the station, the station of my old town in Maine. I arrived two days later having needed to wait for the weekend to avoid being in trouble with my firm. After I arrived I remember walking up those stairs in a frenzied panic, running over parking tickets and tax aversion and pens I'd occasionally stolen from the bank, trying desperately to figure out just what I'd done wrong to be there. I never would have guessed the real reason.
Maine had been in the news a lot in recent months. There was a serial killer they referred to as 'The inferno' going around burning women alive. I suppose in a way I should have put the two together; Tommy, The inferno - but my narcissism prevented me from seeing the connection.
'I'm here to see Officer Creed.' I announced to the receptionist.
She looked listlessly at me and asked me my name. When she spoke I could see
smeared lipstick on her over sized front teeth. 'Ben Candy' I stated
shakily. She pointed me in the right direction and I walked down the desolate
hall full to the brim with nervous fear.
'Ah, Mr. Candy - do take a seat.' Officer Creed was a man about my
age, with a short buzz of ginger hair, the same on his face. He motioned at me
with a steady hand to take a seat in the uncomfortable looking office chair sat
across from his padded swivel. I lowered myself into the seat cautiously, not
entirely certain I wasn't about to need to escape from it sharply. I tried to
settle but my leg was going rapidly, as it always did when I was on edge.
'If you don't mind me asking,' I spoke gingerly 'Am I in any kind
of trouble?' I surveyed his eyes carefully, looking for the judgement I would
surely find in them.
'Oh no no,' he chortled gruffly 'No.' his face grew serious and he
lent towards me slowly 'I'm here to talk to you about Tommy Glint' I sat
stunned, I had not seen Tommy in over 15 years, I could not see why suddenly
I'd been called away from my comfy, monotonous life in Manhattan to sit across
from a man I didn't know, and discuss Tommy Glint. 'I can see by your face you
haven't heard?' He sighed and carelessly pushed a newspaper article towards me.
Inquisitively, I picked it up; 'Have they put out The Inferno?' The title read, I moved my tired
eyes back to Creed unsettled, but finding nothing of comfort on his rugged face
I returned my gaze to the article;
A Caucasian male of 34 has been arrested in the
tri-state area in connection with the stream of Inferno murders plaguing Maine
since 2011. The man was escorted from his home in East Old Town and taken into
police custody early Tuesday night. Officials refuse to give statement but our
sources tell us that recent evidence has come about placing him at a minimum of
three of the confirmed crime scenes.
The article cut out there. I reread the segment three times before
gently placing it back on the jaded oak table and returning my attention to
Officer Creed.
'Right...Well I suppose good news never travels quickly.' I
breathed 'What does this have to do with me?' Creed coughed lightly and
shuffled awkwardly in his chair, he lent to me once again and pointed somewhere
to the right of him.
'Well that man is Tommy, Tommy Glint.' my heart sank into the pit
of my stomach and my head reeled, everything around me seemed to become
2-dimensional and I felt like I was falling into an emotional sink hole. I
thought about our nights sleeping over at mine playing video games. Thought about
him carrying me home from Amy Nish's 17th, when I'd downed an entire bottle
of my dad's Disaranno and thrown up in a girl's mouth. Thought about the day we
met and he talked my ear off about 'the great questions of life' for 6 hours.
'Thing is...' Creed continued, alerting me to his forgotten existence once more 'Tommy's trial's next week. We've got him in there claiming that as children you two were somewhat chummy and he tells us you wouldn't mind standing in for him and telling everyone what he was like as a child, how, you know,' he cleared his throat stiffly 'not psychopathic he was.'
'Thing is...' Creed continued, alerting me to his forgotten existence once more 'Tommy's trial's next week. We've got him in there claiming that as children you two were somewhat chummy and he tells us you wouldn't mind standing in for him and telling everyone what he was like as a child, how, you know,' he cleared his throat stiffly 'not psychopathic he was.'
'But, I haven't seen the man in sixteen years, how am I supposed
to know whether or not he's guilty?' I said, my voice shrill with
confusion.
'Well that's the point Mr. Candy - you don't'
There was a long silence in the room, his last words hanging like a noose above our heads. 'Would you like to see him?' I weighed it up in my mind. On the one hand; the man in the cell next door could be a killer, a grotesque monster capable of rape and torture. A human so twisted they found enjoyment in humiliating and mutilating middle aged women. On the other hand; the man in there was Tommy. My best friend. The only friend I'd had as a boy growing up and practically since. A shy and inept child I'd never quite been able to strike up a conversation with a stranger, never been able to talk to girls, never been social. Tommy had practically forced his friendship upon me the first day of middle school. Erratically talking over my dreary shuffling and alexithymatic disposition we formed a friendship based on him leading, and me following half-heartily behind. I never dreamt I'd be here, sitting in front of someone who was telling me that Tommy - my Tommy - may have done such a disgusting thing. I knew he was a little off, he always had been. He laughed at the scene in the lion king when Mufasa dies; he always took fancy to older women and of course, his icy unfocused eyes. But I couldn't believe he was capable of this. I could feel something in the back of my mind calling me, screaming at me, trying to proclaim my idiocy - I ignored it. Rising to my feel I felt lighter than usual. I wasn't sure of myself anymore, foolish decision clouding faux emotions.
There was a long silence in the room, his last words hanging like a noose above our heads. 'Would you like to see him?' I weighed it up in my mind. On the one hand; the man in the cell next door could be a killer, a grotesque monster capable of rape and torture. A human so twisted they found enjoyment in humiliating and mutilating middle aged women. On the other hand; the man in there was Tommy. My best friend. The only friend I'd had as a boy growing up and practically since. A shy and inept child I'd never quite been able to strike up a conversation with a stranger, never been able to talk to girls, never been social. Tommy had practically forced his friendship upon me the first day of middle school. Erratically talking over my dreary shuffling and alexithymatic disposition we formed a friendship based on him leading, and me following half-heartily behind. I never dreamt I'd be here, sitting in front of someone who was telling me that Tommy - my Tommy - may have done such a disgusting thing. I knew he was a little off, he always had been. He laughed at the scene in the lion king when Mufasa dies; he always took fancy to older women and of course, his icy unfocused eyes. But I couldn't believe he was capable of this. I could feel something in the back of my mind calling me, screaming at me, trying to proclaim my idiocy - I ignored it. Rising to my feel I felt lighter than usual. I wasn't sure of myself anymore, foolish decision clouding faux emotions.
'Yes.' I spoke, voice like nails. 'Lead me to him.'
Tom.
The space was oppressive. With its pastel colored corner-less furniture and dull wall paper it resembled a psychiatric ward; everything designed to inspire calm but equipped to deal with the opposite. I remembered the child psychiatric. I used to get sent there for all manner of reasons; 'Tommy has nightmares' 'Tommy cuts himself.' 'Tommy threatens us.' Every adult in my life since I was old enough to talk developed some kind of psychological qualm against me. I'd sit on the scratchy padded furniture, alone, and imagine I was in a movie. I'd see myself how the camera would view me; cinematic and poised. The perfect little actor to play this warped character in the horror flick that was my life. I used to scratch at myself to pass the time, using my trigonometry compass and one of the larger holes in the pocket of my goodwill jeans. I'd scratch until the fabric soaked red and then i'd scratch some more, seeing how many strokes of my weapon equipped hand it took for my threshold to break. Usually the pain continued through my determined tears.
I'd always known how to hoodwink the therapists, lead them into believing I was not deserving of the labels they bestowed upon me. I found it so obtusely effortless to coax people into believing me, loving me. I knew my mother had hated me as a child - she'd resented my very existence and made it painfully clear. But as I grew and my mind developed, I found her love could be earned with a strategically personalized routine as could any creature's.
That is how I knew Benny would come. I felt no relief, no excitement, the second I saw his ceaselessly worried features peering into the visitor's room. I'd known all along he would come. It's a pleasant feeling, having assurances. For example if my mother hadn't relinquished herself to the heinous hands of death years ago I have no doubt she would have been standing before me too, wearing the same vexatious expression of fear and confusion as Benny displayed.
That is how I knew Benny would come. I felt no relief, no excitement, the second I saw his ceaselessly worried features peering into the visitor's room. I'd known all along he would come. It's a pleasant feeling, having assurances. For example if my mother hadn't relinquished herself to the heinous hands of death years ago I have no doubt she would have been standing before me too, wearing the same vexatious expression of fear and confusion as Benny displayed.
'Hello friend.' I chuckled, extending my chained hand to him. He flinched.I feigned hurt and repossessed my friendly gesture.
'Tom.' He spoke. Mild excitement was being born somewhere inside my vacuous heart, I got the feeling Tommy may have come to tell me to go fuck myself, maybe the big city had changed queer little Candy - hardened up his toffee exterior and made him into a real man. However he then proceeded to lift the cold metal seat in front of mine and tentatively he sat down. I breathed an irksome sigh and then thrust my perfect smile at him.
'How have you been Bennyboy?' I laughed, chains rattling with a curiously cryptic effect. 'Missed me?' His right eye was crumpled slightly in his usual look of apprehension. He coughed nervously and I noticed with amity that his leg was still shaking wildly, just like it had done when we were children. I reached my hand forward and placed it on his tumultuously quavering knee.
'No touching!' A voice boomed out from towards the door. I cackled manically again.
'Sorry officer!' I sang, raising my hands above my head 'Just can't keep my hands off him can I' I offered the uniform by the door a sly wink and he blushed and averted his gaze from the pair of us.
'If you really want to know Tommy' Ben spoke, his reaction over slightly delayed. I assumed the shock of the unwanted caress had probably been enough to astound him into vocalizing his minimal thoughts. 'I have been fine.' ''Fine'' - a word I detested over all others. So bland, so insipid, so... fine. I cringed at the word and then once more plastered a smile to my face.
'Well that's good to hear. You married? Got yourself a girlfriend yet?' I chuckled to myself, primarily aware of the answer. If he had a life, anything solid to cling to, he wouldn't be here. He twisted his hands as he always did when he was conjuring up a lie, such an artless magician.
'Yes I am seeing someone.' he mumbled, eyes averted. I chuckled under my breath at his deplorable fables.
'Okay Benny.' I cooed, batting my eyelids at him. He looked uncomfortable once more and began shaking the other leg. 'Not that it hasn't been great catching up...' he was looking at me with fear etched into everyone of his pudgy features, he also looked as if he was about to vomit. 'Well we both know why you're here. Will you help?'
There was a bubbling in his chest, it rose up through his throat like a raging lava, spewing from his mouth and soaking me - laughter. Uncontained, manic, insane - laughter.
'Alright Ben, I was only enquiring.' but my words made no impact on him, he still lay hunched over the desk, shaking with unstoppable laughter. 'No need to be a dick.' I mumbled angrily. At this point I feared he may have been having a stroke, his howling reached such a loud volume and his eyes bulged from their sockets. But he calmed down after a few patronizing moments and once again sat adamant in his seat, looking at me. I tried to smile at him, but his irksome display had shaken me too much.
'Well Tom, that's the first genuine thing you've said since we've been in here. Now if you want my help...' he coughed a giggle over the word once more 'Then stop acting like you're in 'The silence of the lambs' and talk to me.' I smirked at him through my vexation, impressed by his new found moxie.
'Why do they think you've done this - Tom?' His voice cracked on the last word, whether due to fear or sorrow I was unsure, but the display of emotion unsettled me. It was my turn to shuffle uncomfortably. When I moved it sounded like a gentle breeze had hit a happy wind chime on a summer-touched porch, the evil chains holding me shivering with my movement. I wasn't sure how to tell Benny. This boy I held so dear, the only friend i'd ever valued. His lips shook as he gazed at me, awaiting my confession. Maybe I should tell him the story of my scars again, or maybe I should make up a new story. Maybe I should tell him the truth - how alive I felt as I watched them die. How it was the only time in my entire shambles of a life that I've ever felt anything real, anything worth of being called a feeling. Sure I'd had impulses before, wants, general needs - but this was a genuine feeling. It was as if my entire life had been one long sleep, as if I was living in a vegetative state until the moment I heard the screams of that first woman, felt them wash over me, making my body shake. As I'd watch the skin bubbling on each victim, their eyes melting in their sockets - I'd feel as if it was my skin on fire, my blood boiling - my feelings. And with that i'd leave the stupor, be cast forward into a state of ecstasy. I'd never felt it before, nor since. But I could not tell him that, so I simply shrugged. Maybe saying nothing would be enough.
Ben.
Tom just stared at me blankly. My question to him clung to my tongue, dangling from my mouth waiting to be answered. He looked sheepish, the glaciers of his irises melting into me. I repeated myself firmly;
'Why do they think you've done this?' he remained adamant in his silence so I added an air of pleading to my inquest 'Tom, please'
'Ah Bennyboy.' he waved a hand at me as if sweeping away my query. 'Why do people think anything? Why is the sky blue?Why is the grass green? Why does it matter?' he slammed his balled fist down on the cold metal table, it left a frosty glazed imprint like the ghost of a sea urchin when he lifted it. 'All that matters in this instance Ben is that I didn't do it.' I held his gaze, trying to fish out the truth from his ambiguous features. 'I didn't do it.' I was unsure whether he was trying to convince me or himself now. I told him I believed him, not certain as to wether or not that was true. We arranged certain necessities; the inquest, the trial - my statement. Then we began to talk of past memories, of girls and parties and concerts and drugs. We spoke of our youth like two pals catching up over coffee, forgetting our abysmal surroundings. When the conversation ran dry we just looked at each other, surveying the places on each face age had touched and mutated. Eventually I stood up to leave and just as I was turning to exit I heard Tom mumble something incoherent feebly. I turned to him once more and as I looked him over again, my eyes lingering on his heinous scars, he said coldly;
'Don't fuck this up Ben.' And with that, I left.
The entire duration of my journey home I cast Tom from my mind. Unable to focus entirely on the issue my mind just kept panicking, racing over each arduous detail. I felt tight in my chest, a fight-or-flight sensation I hadn't experienced in much substantiality since I left college. I forced myself to take interest in the mundane surroundings flashing before my eyes as i drove. The nocturnal cars passing by in the midnight dark, basking momentarily in the orange glow of the feeble streetlights, their haze losing the battle against the consuming blackness.
When I got home I marked the date of the trial in bold red pen on the bland 'sceneries' calendar that hung over my kitchen sink and immediately retired to bed. I dreamt of Tom that night, not for the first time since our parting of ways in '82 and definitely not the last. There he sat, so proud and still, atop a bobbing rowing boat. He was smiling at me. His smile seemed crooked somehow, like only half of his face was committing to its existence. He was calling me, beckoning me to join him. I knew I was swimming although I couldn't feel or see my body thrashing around in the icy water. It seemed the more I tried to reach him, the further away he became - all the while cackling manically at my pathetic attempts. I began tasting salt in a mouth I hadn't been aware of before then. After the mouth followed the lungs. Searing and seizing in an attempt to locate and consume sweet oxygen to no avail. I felt my body, finally, as it was submerged beneath the crashing tide. Tom disappeared from view. My head began to mimic my lungs, shreiking at me in a pulsating desperaion, the pain of both increasing with every breath. The world went black and nothing existed anymore. I knew what it meant, I knew it was a warning. I was the water as Tommy was the fire. If I allied with him I would surely succumb to the extremities of my element. And just as I became aware that I had drowned - I woke up.
'How have you been Bennyboy?' I laughed, chains rattling with a curiously cryptic effect. 'Missed me?' His right eye was crumpled slightly in his usual look of apprehension. He coughed nervously and I noticed with amity that his leg was still shaking wildly, just like it had done when we were children. I reached my hand forward and placed it on his tumultuously quavering knee.
'No touching!' A voice boomed out from towards the door. I cackled manically again.
'Sorry officer!' I sang, raising my hands above my head 'Just can't keep my hands off him can I' I offered the uniform by the door a sly wink and he blushed and averted his gaze from the pair of us.
'If you really want to know Tommy' Ben spoke, his reaction over slightly delayed. I assumed the shock of the unwanted caress had probably been enough to astound him into vocalizing his minimal thoughts. 'I have been fine.' ''Fine'' - a word I detested over all others. So bland, so insipid, so... fine. I cringed at the word and then once more plastered a smile to my face.
'Well that's good to hear. You married? Got yourself a girlfriend yet?' I chuckled to myself, primarily aware of the answer. If he had a life, anything solid to cling to, he wouldn't be here. He twisted his hands as he always did when he was conjuring up a lie, such an artless magician.
'Yes I am seeing someone.' he mumbled, eyes averted. I chuckled under my breath at his deplorable fables.
'Okay Benny.' I cooed, batting my eyelids at him. He looked uncomfortable once more and began shaking the other leg. 'Not that it hasn't been great catching up...' he was looking at me with fear etched into everyone of his pudgy features, he also looked as if he was about to vomit. 'Well we both know why you're here. Will you help?'
There was a bubbling in his chest, it rose up through his throat like a raging lava, spewing from his mouth and soaking me - laughter. Uncontained, manic, insane - laughter.
'Alright Ben, I was only enquiring.' but my words made no impact on him, he still lay hunched over the desk, shaking with unstoppable laughter. 'No need to be a dick.' I mumbled angrily. At this point I feared he may have been having a stroke, his howling reached such a loud volume and his eyes bulged from their sockets. But he calmed down after a few patronizing moments and once again sat adamant in his seat, looking at me. I tried to smile at him, but his irksome display had shaken me too much.
'Well Tom, that's the first genuine thing you've said since we've been in here. Now if you want my help...' he coughed a giggle over the word once more 'Then stop acting like you're in 'The silence of the lambs' and talk to me.' I smirked at him through my vexation, impressed by his new found moxie.
'Why do they think you've done this - Tom?' His voice cracked on the last word, whether due to fear or sorrow I was unsure, but the display of emotion unsettled me. It was my turn to shuffle uncomfortably. When I moved it sounded like a gentle breeze had hit a happy wind chime on a summer-touched porch, the evil chains holding me shivering with my movement. I wasn't sure how to tell Benny. This boy I held so dear, the only friend i'd ever valued. His lips shook as he gazed at me, awaiting my confession. Maybe I should tell him the story of my scars again, or maybe I should make up a new story. Maybe I should tell him the truth - how alive I felt as I watched them die. How it was the only time in my entire shambles of a life that I've ever felt anything real, anything worth of being called a feeling. Sure I'd had impulses before, wants, general needs - but this was a genuine feeling. It was as if my entire life had been one long sleep, as if I was living in a vegetative state until the moment I heard the screams of that first woman, felt them wash over me, making my body shake. As I'd watch the skin bubbling on each victim, their eyes melting in their sockets - I'd feel as if it was my skin on fire, my blood boiling - my feelings. And with that i'd leave the stupor, be cast forward into a state of ecstasy. I'd never felt it before, nor since. But I could not tell him that, so I simply shrugged. Maybe saying nothing would be enough.
Ben.
Tom just stared at me blankly. My question to him clung to my tongue, dangling from my mouth waiting to be answered. He looked sheepish, the glaciers of his irises melting into me. I repeated myself firmly;
'Why do they think you've done this?' he remained adamant in his silence so I added an air of pleading to my inquest 'Tom, please'
'Ah Bennyboy.' he waved a hand at me as if sweeping away my query. 'Why do people think anything? Why is the sky blue?Why is the grass green? Why does it matter?' he slammed his balled fist down on the cold metal table, it left a frosty glazed imprint like the ghost of a sea urchin when he lifted it. 'All that matters in this instance Ben is that I didn't do it.' I held his gaze, trying to fish out the truth from his ambiguous features. 'I didn't do it.' I was unsure whether he was trying to convince me or himself now. I told him I believed him, not certain as to wether or not that was true. We arranged certain necessities; the inquest, the trial - my statement. Then we began to talk of past memories, of girls and parties and concerts and drugs. We spoke of our youth like two pals catching up over coffee, forgetting our abysmal surroundings. When the conversation ran dry we just looked at each other, surveying the places on each face age had touched and mutated. Eventually I stood up to leave and just as I was turning to exit I heard Tom mumble something incoherent feebly. I turned to him once more and as I looked him over again, my eyes lingering on his heinous scars, he said coldly;
'Don't fuck this up Ben.' And with that, I left.
The entire duration of my journey home I cast Tom from my mind. Unable to focus entirely on the issue my mind just kept panicking, racing over each arduous detail. I felt tight in my chest, a fight-or-flight sensation I hadn't experienced in much substantiality since I left college. I forced myself to take interest in the mundane surroundings flashing before my eyes as i drove. The nocturnal cars passing by in the midnight dark, basking momentarily in the orange glow of the feeble streetlights, their haze losing the battle against the consuming blackness.
When I got home I marked the date of the trial in bold red pen on the bland 'sceneries' calendar that hung over my kitchen sink and immediately retired to bed. I dreamt of Tom that night, not for the first time since our parting of ways in '82 and definitely not the last. There he sat, so proud and still, atop a bobbing rowing boat. He was smiling at me. His smile seemed crooked somehow, like only half of his face was committing to its existence. He was calling me, beckoning me to join him. I knew I was swimming although I couldn't feel or see my body thrashing around in the icy water. It seemed the more I tried to reach him, the further away he became - all the while cackling manically at my pathetic attempts. I began tasting salt in a mouth I hadn't been aware of before then. After the mouth followed the lungs. Searing and seizing in an attempt to locate and consume sweet oxygen to no avail. I felt my body, finally, as it was submerged beneath the crashing tide. Tom disappeared from view. My head began to mimic my lungs, shreiking at me in a pulsating desperaion, the pain of both increasing with every breath. The world went black and nothing existed anymore. I knew what it meant, I knew it was a warning. I was the water as Tommy was the fire. If I allied with him I would surely succumb to the extremities of my element. And just as I became aware that I had drowned - I woke up.
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