Back To The Flames

It’s the smell of burnt flesh that wakes me. Burnt flesh and petrol. And I know what it is – or rather who. He visits often. His naked frame is already seated on the white sheets of my bed. He doesn’t ask to sit, and he doesn’t want to look at me. I don’t want to look at his hideous, melted features either… but I do. It’s dark but I see him. He has a request, but he cannot bring himself to ask it and I know what the request is. I will not say it, though, even if he would like me to. I see him clearly.

At first, I didn’t recognise him. His first visit, I mean. No side-parting, no moustache, no piercing eyes. Just a heap of wretched burnt flesh sat on the side of the bed (everybody else stands) – a grotesque apparition that avoided making eye-contact. He knew what I would see. I sat up and waited. No rush, I thought, but when he did look, and our eyes met, an awful surge passed through me and I saw everything – the deceit, the hatred, the pitiful waste and the horror of countless brutal murders. He looked away quickly and I knew who he was.

Minutes pass and we converse, but not with words. I read his mind and grant him limited access to mine. He feels sorry for himself because he cannot change his appearance. He’s stuck this way – naked, burnt and wounds seeping through crusted yellow scabs – and it makes him angry. He is trapped, too. Apart from these fleeting visits, he is confined to one place and the climate there doesn’t do his appearance any favours. Bub gives him leave every two or three weeks to tease and humiliate him, although there was a period where he didn’t visit for six years.

Granted, it’s been seventy-five years since he started coming, but it hasn’t changed anything. So, as always, I attempt conversing about other topics, to make his time here more easy. He was a singer at one time and a keen painter, too. What did you paint? I ask but he shrugs it off. What did you sing? but he just scoffs. Don’t humour me. He loved his mother dearly, though. I have spoken with her many times and she still loves her little boy. He had it tough she says, His poor brother. I relay her messages and he weeps.

Other than that, he hasn’t changed. His ideals haven’t changed. Still believes he was right and those beliefs cannot be hidden. Stifling them doesn’t work because I can hear it all. He curses Stalin. He curses Roosevelt, Churchill and all of those who fought in spite of him. He curses all of those too weak to defend him, to realise his dream. He curses his eternal misery and agony. He curses God.

Deeds done cannot be undone, but there is always repentance I tell him, There is forgiveness. He nods a resigned nod but we both understand the hopelessness of my words. His request still lingers and we both know what happens as soon as he asks. I shake my head to discourage him and he looks at me, his glazed black eyes raging once more from a ravaged and near featureless face. The temptation is too much and he takes his chance. Eva… he blurts out her name but the instant he does, he vanishes. Back to Bub, back to the flames.