Page 2 of Watch Me Burn
“You . . .” he began as they walked.
“ . . . Me?” Anna echoed.
Ethan’s nod was emphatic. “You were as strong as Iron Man.”
Anna recoiled slightly in surprise. “Really?”
He nodded again. “You saved me from that boy. See? You are strong, just like I said. Strong like Iron Man.”
Anna straightened, her chin lifting in newfound pride. “I am Iron Man.” Her gaze softened as she looked at Ethan. “And you’re very kind. Form your heart. Like a Mother Teresa.”
“Who’s that?” Ethan asked.
Anna shrugged. “I’m not sure, but she is a good person. Our pastor mentions her often in church.”
Ethan, who didn’t attend church, wouldn’t know, but he nodded, pride lighting up his face. “I’m Mother Teresa.”
Anna agreed with a nod. “You’re Mother Teresa.”
As the pair continued their journey, navigating past picket fences and floral arrangements, Ethan suddenly stopped. Anna looked up at him, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Can we still be friends forever? If you’re Iron Man and I’m Mother Teresa, maybe we won’t have time to play together anymore,” he worried.
Scratching her head, Anna frowned in thought. “I . . . think we still can. Otherwise, I don’t want to be Iron Man.”
“And I don’t want to be Mother Teresa.”
Anna stepped closer to Ethan, her youthful innocence shining through her smile. “Friends forever?”
A warm, comforting sensation swelled within their youthful hearts. Their bond seemed so profound that it felt as if they would always find their way back to each other, regardless of their circumstances.
Ethan returned her grin. “Forever and ever. I swear it.”
CHAPTER 1
ETHAN
New Hampshire State Prison for Men
Gazing into the makeshift mirror in my claustrophobic, dim cell, I attempted to knot the tie that had cost me my beloved radio—an invaluable link to the outside world. I traded it for a suit, knowing that the impression of a clean-cut neighbor bound for Sunday service might serve me better today. My parole hearing was imminent, and not a soul had ever shown me how to tie a necktie. A glaring example of the countless life skills I’d been deprived of. Even such a basic task became a bitter reminder of my shitty life.
“Damn it,” I muttered, staring at the vague, shadowy reflection before me. Strict regulations against mirrors in prison—to prevent their transformation into weapons—had the unsettling effect of alienating me from my own appearance. In here, your worth was measured by the menacing tattoos you earned for besting others, or the muscle mass you accumulated from relentless weightlifting. The last time I saw my own face was . . . My grip on the tie slackened as I tried to recall. Was it in the fleeting image reflected in a rain puddle in the yard? Or was it the heart-wrenching memory of my last visit with my grandmother seven years ago, a woman I had loved deeply and who had needed to endure the relentless assault of cancer all alone while I was confined within these walls? She passed away, facing an empty funeral, devoid of mourners to remember her.
A lump formed in my throat, and my hand reflexively clenched, crumpling the silky fabric of the tie. My rough, scarred hand was a testament to a life filled with battles. Every single day, the simmering rage and hatred seethed within me, consuming me like an uncontrolled wildfire. Fifteen years. Fifteen. Long. Fucking. Years I had been incarcerated for a murder I didn’t commit. How did one just release that kind of injustice and the rage that came with it? How could anyone just wake up one morning and brush it off like an inconsequential mistake, easily forgiven and forgotten?
The answer was painfully clear.
One didn’t.
I was robbed of the simple joys of youth: picking up my prom date, the promise of a shy kiss hanging in the air; the pride of driving my first rickety car off a shady dealer’s lot; college; backpacking across continents; and the wholesome adventures of youth were nothing more than distant dreams. So were the countless birthdays and holidays I missed, times when I should’ve been with my grandma. And what about romance? A woman I could have met at a college library or even swiping through a dating app. A woman who might have loved me for the slightly stubborn but hardworking and caring guy I could’ve been. But now? It’s hard to see any woman looking past the labels that society has slapped on me. Ex-con. Killer. I’m practically wrapped up in red flags.
The abrupt clang of the slot opening in my steel cell door jarred me from my thoughts.
“It’s time, Wayne,” Jones, the squat, triangle-shaped prison guard, announced through the slit. The usual routine was to stick my hands out to be cuffed, but I was still wrestling with my tie. If they denied my parole again, for the fifth goddamn time, I swore I’d rip this place apart—literally. If luck was on my side, they’d shoot me, and I wouldn’t have to endure another bone-chilling winter in this hellhole. No more attempts on my life. No more gang fights. No more days of watching other inmates read letters from loved ones I didn’t have.
“This fucking tie, Jones,” I muttered, annoyance thick in my voice.
“For Christ’s sake,” Jones cursed, throwing protocol to the wind by swinging open the door without first cuffing me. He trusted I wouldn’t harm him or the other guards. Unless they fucked with me. I wasn’t a hot-headed or violent guy like many of the other inmates—unless push came to shove. And if someone did shove me, well, I’d do what needed to be done, even if it killed me—or the other guy. It was the only reason I was still breathing in this place. People had learned not to fuck with me, one of the largest guys here with absolutely nothing to lose.
