He steps back, assessing the wide expanse of wall before him. There’s more to fire than people realize. More shades. More layers. More power.
Squatting down, Jareth starts low, where the fiercest heat would be. His fingers skim over the wall, the memories he doesn’t want starting to consume him.
The first stroke is a bold one, sweeping straight across the bottom of the wall. The base is where the fire is the hottest, the most intense. The darkest in color.
He drops to his knees, his arm sweeping left then right. Maybe this time he’ll be able to capture the moment. Capture the truth. His other hand joins the first, spreading across his canvas, pressing down hard.
This is the point the fire is being fed. This red is the color of hunger. Greed. Destruction. His arms spear out wide, sensing its need to be fueled.
Except it’s not big enough. Not hot enough.
He jumps to his feet, energy thrumming through him. The colors bloom, developing a life of their own like they always do. The deep clarets, the vivid crimsons, the shades of blood—dried blood, congealed blood, bright, oxygen-rich blood.
The higher he climbs, the more the flames come alive. Gut-ripping orange, sickly-scented yellow. It’s terrifying and beautiful all at once.
Jareth pulls the stepladder over, and his hands blur as they dance across the wall and up to the ceiling. There’s a roaring in his ears. His breath comes in pants. Just like last time, the flames will climb across the roof. The smoke will billow like clouds. If he keeps going, he can cover the whole room in flames. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, the fire will drown out the screams.
Their screams.
The doorbell ringing pierces the silence. Jareth looks around, his chest heaving. The scent of acrid smoke slowly clears from his throat. He’s almost surprised to find himself still in the living room. To see the complete lack of damage and destruction.
Fire leaves behind charred coal and gutted rooms.
And shattered lives.
The doorbell rings again, twice this time. Jareth turns away from the carnage he splashed across his lounge room wall. It never looks right, anyway.
It never does the moment justice.
Flicking his hair back from his eyes, he shrugs as if he can shake off the helpless anger. Wishing he could ignore the visitor standing on the other side of the door, he opens it.
Shandra’s bleached blonde hair startles Jareth every time he sees her. Maybe it’s the sharp, pageboy cut. Maybe it’s the lacquered way she plasters it to her skull. Maybe it’s the harsh contrast to her rounded, ebony face.
She smiles. “Hello, Jareth.”
Jareth opens the door wider even though he wants to slam it shut. “Hey, Shandra.”
Just like he knew she would, she takes that as the invite to come in, hitching her over-sized handbag higher up her shoulder. Jareth supposes if social workers waited for a verbal invite, most of their home visits would be done in driveways.
She walks down the hall, familiar with the layout of the house after several visits, already fishing her notebook out of her handbag. She stops in the lounge room, looking around then doing exactly what Jareth knew she would.
She scribbles in her notepad.
Jareth leans a shoulder against the doorjamb that leads to the kitchen, waiting.
Her smile expanding across her round face, Shandra looks up. “So, how have you been?”
“Good.”
Somehow, that justifies far more scrawling in the notepad than the single word he used.
“Wonderful!” Shandra exclaims like Jareth just told her he’s joined a social club. Another quick glance at her surroundings and she indicates the table nearby. “May I?”
Jareth jams his hands in his pockets, not entering the room. “Of course.”
It would get tiring writing all those notes without something to lean on.
Shandra lowers her bulk onto a chair, smoothing her too-smooth hair. “Thank you, Jareth. I always appreciate your hospitality.”
Jareth’s brows spike up. Was Shandra having a dig?
This is her fourth visit since he moved into this house. They’ve always been short, cordial, with lots of scribbles in that darned notepad. She checks he’s still alive, she leaves.
He prepares his rote responses. Yes, I’m eating more than pasta after you went through my kitchen cupboards, tsk tsking. Yes, I’ve washed my clothes more regularly after you commented that I need more than two changes. Yes, I’ve stayed in contact with all my old friends. He’ll even say that last lie without blinking.
But this time, Shandra sits back, looks at him and