Incinerate

Chapter 1 - Don't You Forget About Me

          I've always been afraid of flying. Kinda ironic, then, that I was so into planes as a kid. At one point I even wanted to be a pilot. To be fair, I was ten years old at the time, and ten year olds are dumb. I was no exception. It wasn't until I was twelve that I got on a plane for the first time. According to Mom, I cried all through takeoff and refused to look out the window at the ocean of clouds below us. I'm fairly certain my brain locked away that memory in the Deep Vault, because all I remember is taking my seat on the plane at O'Hare and then us magically already being on the tarmac in Mesa. When I was older, I asked Dad if anything had happened during that flight, but he swore up and down that aside from a little turbulence it was normal.

          Whenever it came time for family vacations, I would beg my parents to drive to our destination instead of flying. When Dad had business trips, I would cry if he said he was taking a flight. Nightmares of his plane crashing would sprinkle themselves in until he finally came home. Sometimes I would see a news report on TV detailing the horror, or other times I would be on the plane with him as it was going down. Even after all these years, those hellish dreams still make an occasional showing at the Ash Woodward Unconscious Theater.

          But in my other dreams, or at least the ones that stick with me, I have wings. Large and made of ivory feathers, they stretch out far beyond my fingertips. With one great gust, I launch into the air and soar. The wind on my face, the sun on my back, feeling free and ecstatic... it's the best feeling in the world. Far below, the cement plots and skyscrapers of Chicago give way to farmland and corn fields. I fly for forever, or what feels like it. People the size of ants look up in wonder, calling me an angel and taking photos. I don't want it to end, no matter how far I go. I'll fly all the way to the ocean if I can. I'll even fly to Europe or Japan or wherever I want. No one can get in my way. Nothing will stop me.

          That is, until the heat on my back grows too hot. I glance behind me and find my beautiful white wings ablaze. The panic begins as I try to blow out the flames or beat them out with my hands. A futile endeavor, I relent, as all my feathers turn black and wilt away into ash. A trail forms behind me, like dust kicked up by a horse speeding across the desert in one of those old Western movies. The pink flesh underneath reveals itself piece by piece until I am bare and tumbling down. My heart beats out of my chest as I flap tirelessly in hopes of regaining some sort of control. But the ground gets bigger and bigger, and the unavoidable dread grows colder and colder. I wake up before I hit the ground, my pillow wet with sweat and my heart racing.

          These dreams come more frequent in the weeks approaching Moving Day. And with each one, I get closer and closer to the ground before my subconscious yanks me out of the experience and forces me to wake up. If only it could do the same before the fall, or before the flames. Thanks, Morpheus. Or would Hypnos be to blame? Maybe it's a tag-team effort.

          Day by day, the house becomes more and more like the last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Boxes pile up high in every room, holding precious treasures and objects of mystery. For instance, Mom's nutcracker collection. Lord knows how many she has at this point, and how what she refuses to call an obsession began. All packed away, their agape mouths no longer threaten to chomp off my fingertips as I pass them by. They can stay that way for all I care. Creepy little things. Thank God she doesn't collect dolls. I've seen too many scary movies featuring haunted dolls to trust a single one of them. They are vessels for demonic forces, not innocent playthings for little girls. While Mom would use the word "blame", I would prefer to assign positive credit to Dad for introducing me to the genre, despite the sleepless nights such films cause every now and then.

          His study takes the longest to get through. More often than not, I find Mom just sitting in there looking over something. Reminiscing, I suppose. I'm guilty of that too, on occasion, when I take over for her. Old family photos, his massive book collection affectionately referred to as The Grand Woodward Library, even some old manuscripts; we both get lost for hours in that study. Luckily, Uncle Cameron proves to be more resilient when it comes to the alluring call of Memory Lane. Perhaps the sixteen-year age gap between him and Dad drove some kind of generational divide between them that hindered a closer emotional bond. After all, Uncle Cameron left the house when Dad was only two years old. Regardless, that kind of disconnect comes in handy as our vacancy deadline grows near.