Inside you are dying. All the things that hold you back turning cancerous, eating away until they find the core of you, the secret self liars told you would always be safe. There is no safe. But tonight I offer you a key, a way back, out, and through. A cure for your cancerous expectations. A chance to send your ghosts back through the veil and walk among the living again. There will be no discussion, or questions. Cowards will reap the harvests of hesistation,the bold will coax fruit from a tree long thought cursed. Breathe in. Now begin:
Your mug is filthy with with brown rings and you wonder; could you use them to count how many cups of tea and coffee since the last time you bothered to wash it?
Probably not.
Tonight is a black coffee night. After days without sleep you don't even want the sweet lies of cream and sugar. Just the bitter heat of caffeine. There is a manila envelope on your kitchen table, one of those padded ones. The corners are worn. Slurping the last of the coffee down, for a moment you taste envelope glue.
Inside is a cassette tape; the kind you once used to make mix tapes for crushes. Also, a book of matches.
Finding a tape player takes some effort but eventually you remember where to find one. The D batteries are so old they've started to corrode inside. Crusted brown sludge. It almost looks like dry blood and makes the air turn acrid. First you clean it up with some paper towels and then set to rummaging for a power cord that will fit the fucking thing.
The matchbook is in your left hand now. You set the tape player by the front door, press play,and step outside. Your shirt is off, your belt buckle undone. On some level your brain registers that the air is cold, but your body is choking on so much caffeine you're sweating. There is recorded silence and then you hear their voice. Instant recognition; sounds as smoky and raspy as the day you last saw them. So long ago now. They don't sound a day older, but they sounded thirty then, so you gotta figure that's a good thing. Tear out one match. Strike it. Set the book corner on fire. Anticipation for the flare.
The pain in your hand is sudden and sharp. You can't help but think of the time that door slammed shut around your finger. Hoping for for days the nail would make it but eventually half the nail died, while the other half clung tenuously to your purple finger. Eventually you worked up the courage to grab the corner of the nail between your teeth and tear it out. Pulling it out hurt less than keeping it in, and in the long run, it grew back.
Close eyes against the flames. Bury your perception in their recorded voice. Remember how their hair shined under the summer sun. Remember how they used to lay in the road when traffic was coming. Always like there was two of them; one ready to die one laughing and waving for you to come save them. Those were in between days, times of myth, and a place your secret self still plays.
The tape says you have a week to find them. There are six steps to the door they wait behind, and a seventh to carry you through. Step forward tonight or never again.
The flames spread. Burning away the excess; leaving you lean.
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