A BATHTUB OF COOKING OIL

01.09.2020

I’d finally found him. He was sat on a park bench in a dressing gown and some moth-eaten slippers. He hadn’t been the same after the divorce, but this was truly the worst I’d seen him. His hair resembled an unkept cat lazing on his scalp and his face was dusted in soot. Anyone else might have thought him to be an escaped mental patient. I noticed a sadness in his eyes, a child-like gaze of desperation for things to be the way he wished they could be. Not that I could blame him, considering. I came and sat beside him; the bench was still damp from the light shower earlier that morning. You could still smell the rain’s humid musk in the air, along with a faint hint of wood smoke.
“John…”
He started and sprang up onto his feet, his eyes now more wild and afraid. It took him a moment to mark my face, but once he recognised me he didn’t seem any more comforted.
“John, what are you doing here? It’s cold out. You’ll get ill.”
My words didn’t seem to go in, but his expression softened, just the tiniest bit. I could see the tears now. He folded his arms, hunching his shoulders as he did, and turned to look up at the sky.
“John?”
He didn’t reply. I twiddled my thumbs and looked down into my lap.
“I’m sorry about your house. When I woke up to the sound of sirens, I knew something awful had…”
“Don’t be sorry.” He was still gazing idly into the horizon. “I did it.”
I was stuck for a response. “What do you mean?”
“The fire. That was me.”
I shuffled uncomfortably. “John?”
He turned to me now, convicting and frustrated, “I did it, I started the fucking fire. That was me. I’m not some victim here. It… I…”. His eyes seared up and he began to tremble and turned around again. I could hear him straining to keep himself in.
What was I supposed to say? What do you say in these situations?
“Why?”
I received a bitter side-long glance for a moment, before he jarred himself away again.
“Why not?” These words were sarcastic, with scathing tone.
Speech had left me entirely now. I held my gaze on him, processing the information.                                
After a stretch of silence, he let out a deep breath and turned to come sit with me again. The bench groaned as he heaped himself heavily onto the opposite end. There was another, shorter silence, only broken by his muffled sniffs and fidgets.
“I’ve lost everything.”
I went to speak but he continued, “It’s not the house. I don’t care that the house is gone. None of that mattered. I lost what was important long before then.”
He started to rub his arms for warmth. I began taking off my cardigan to offer to him, but he shook his head and held himself tighter.
“I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in.”
He gave a gentle nod and quickly wiped his eyes, seemingly embarrassed to be breaking down in front of me.
My hand took his, softly clasping them. They were icy cold and shaking violently.
“I got the house. That fucking house.” He tensed up, spitting his words, “What am I going to do with a fucking house!”
I tightened my clasp on him for reassurance, but he snatched his hand back.
“What use is a bed? What good is bloody TV?” The tears rolled freely now. “None of it means anything. Owning things doesn’t mean anything. I had a house, and a bed, and a TV, and carpets, and windows, and doors. None of it made me happy. None of it gave my life meaning. So why have it?”
“It’s okay to have comforts.”
“No. No it’s not.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve with a grotty sniff then held his head in his hands, clutching fistfuls of his scruffy fringe. “So, I burned it. All of it.”
“And is that it? Does your life have meaning now?”
He didn’t answer. It was hard to tell if he was crying or laughing.
I searched for words. Nothing came. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his head.
But then I saw it.
“You didn’t burn everything.”
He turned his head to peer at me through the slits of his fingers.
“On your finger.”
He quickly wiped his nose again then held his hand up in front of him. There was a moment where time seemed to stop and a glimmer of the dull morning sun on the silver wedding ring held his gaze. Then he snatched his hand back in and buried himself into his palms.
“You didn’t burn that.”
“No.”
“Why not? I thought everything was meaningless.”
Rubbing his eyes, he straightened out his back, letting the cool breeze onto his face. The skin around his eyes and cheeks was red raw. “So is this. Without the other one…”
“This one?” I interrupted.
Silence once more. His eyes met mine for a moment. Then they strayed to the ring that I was now holding up.
“You didn’t get rid of it?” His tone was lowered, sceptical.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because. Once upon a time,” I said, sighing quietly as I slid the ring onto my finger, “it made me happy. It gave my life meaning.”
His eyes held mine one last time, sore from exertion. His voice was hoarse and weak. Defeated.
“I burned my house down.”
I slipped his hand into mine, decisively stood up and turned to him with one last sigh.
“Come on, let’s take you home.”