Blood In My Alcohol Stream

by Madison Hankins

Her eyes are hidden behind their damp lids, blocking out whatever might enter her room this time. Tucked into the crook of Charlie’s arm, as if being strangled, is her stuffed penguin, Toasty, her only comfort for the past two years. Her arms are clearly visible, as are the large, deep bruises that cover them, and her tightly closed eyes have hints of yellow and purple surrounding them. Covered by her ripped t-shirt is a seven-inch long cut starting from her ribs on the left side and reaching across her belly button. A token from her fight a few days ago with her brother. She hadn’t meant to upset him. She should’ve known he’d been drinking, and letting her boyfriend bring her home after their date was the worst thing she could’ve done. After a fifteen- minute screaming match, and a few blows from both sides, Liam’s pocketknife emerged from his jeans and made its cruel mark on her. She had to toss the dress she’d been wearing.

Despite the sound of glass breaking coming from downstairs, the room around her is still, and the only sound reaching through the windows comes from the cicadas moving into the neighborhood. Her half-eaten plate of lasagna that Jodie, her single, middle-aged neighbor, left on her front porch sits abandoned at the foot of the bed, attracting flies. Curtains are pulled shut over the drafty windows on the far side. Other than her bed, the rest of the furniture consists of a nightstand, a small dresser in her closet, and the cracked ceramic lamp she found on the side of the road. The blue and white pattern caught Charlie’s eye immediately, and even though she doesn’t have a light bulb for it, she still likes to look at it. Before the lamp, the last time something new entered her room was the night her mother gave her Toasty. He kept her company the next morning as she watched her mother leave the driveway with their only car, headed east with no intention of finding her way back.

The memory of that night flashes in Charlie’s mind as she’s once again comforted by Toasty. She holds her breath, a feeble attempt to keep her brother from hearing her, but she breathes in quickly when her chest burns, and her head feels light. She can feel Liam stomping around the living room directly under her bedroom, the house shaking slightly, and the proximity to her brother makes bile rise slightly. Her wounds were finally starting to heal, and she wanted to avoid getting anymore before people at school started to notice.

The two siblings have never been close. They’ve rarely ever gotten along, but it only got worse after their dad was found dead behind a bar in Jackson from a drug deal gone bad. Liam, being freshly twenty-one and there being no other relatives alive, got custody of the fifteen-year- old Charlie. She had few good memories of the two of them, which have now faded into pictures from someone else’s past, replaced by memories of fights and blood. For years, his aggression towards her has only grown. She doesn’t think he hates her. She just thinks he doesn’t want to be burdened with her. At least that part has been clear from the start.

The room is blurry and has a bluish tint when Charlie finally opens her eyes, roused from her self-imposed isolation by the smell of gas and ash coming from the vent in the corner of her room. She quickly removes her hands from her ears and throws Toasty off of her as she leaves her bed in search of the smell. The house only consists of her bedroom and bathroom upstairs, with her brother’s bedroom and bathroom, the kitchen, and living room downstairs, so it doesn’t take her long before she finds the source of the smell.

Charlie finds her brother on the couch downstairs, sprawled out and barely conscious from his nightly drunken ritual.

“Liam, what the hell did you do?” Charlie screams at her brother as his eyes close and his body relaxes into the cushions. The smell of whiskey and weed permeates from his body, making bile once again rise in her throat as she searches the room. The space heater by the front door isn’t plugged in, and there aren’t any candles lit, nothing in the living room to make the house smell like a campfire. She thinks of the kitchen and wonders if Liam tried to cook anything in his stupor. A flash of panic crosses her eyes.

Liam mumbles incoherently to her as she passes him and walks into the kitchen, now almost fully ablaze. Glass from a broken Jameson bottle litters the floor in front of the gas stove, and she can see the melted knob turned to high, a clear picture of what took place only moments ago.

The thick heat claws at her skin, trying to force its way into her body. She shields her eyes as she looks for something to put out the fire. The sink is fully engulfed in the dance of the orange inferno, blocking off her source of water, but the thought of it spreading the fire crosses her mind, the result of a safety class she took for extra credit. She searches her memory for anything else she learned in that course, and baking soda flashes into her head. The chance that they have baking soda is slim, but she reaches for the pantry door to check anyway. Behind a nearly empty box of Pop Tarts and two cups of instant ramen, Charlie finds an expired container of baking soda.

The fire has already spread to the curtains over the far window, and the cabinets on either side of the stove have turned black. Charlie throws as much of the baking soda onto the fire as she can, aiming it at the stove to try to put out the source, but the fire continues its crawl across the room, reaching more cabinets and beginning its descent upon the fridge. Burnt plastic mingles in with the scent of gas and ash. There’s not a cellphone or landline in the house. No way to call for help. With dread dropping into her stomach, Charlie realizes there’s no more time. They have to get out.

“Liam, get up. We have to go,” Charlie yells at her brother, grabbing an empty trash bag from the box in the pantry. Liam doesn’t move as she runs upstairs and begins throwing everything she can into the bag. A pair of sneakers, a hoodie, jeans, a t-shirt and shorts, pictures, whatever she can grab. She knows she only has minutes. Last to go into the bag is Toasty, along with her charm bracelet she got from her dad on her eighth birthday, the last one before he turned to meth—his drug of choice. She reaches the door and looks back at her room for a single second, the only place that’s truly been home despite her whole life going to shit, before leaving it behind.

“Wake up, asshole. The house is on fire.” Liam is still asleep on the couch when she comes back down, oblivious to the carnage that he caused. Anger fills Charlie’s senses, temporarily clouding the panic she feels from the fire. She crosses the room, rears her arm back, and slaps her brother’s face with as much strength as she can muster. He doesn’t move. The fire is spreading quickly now, and she knows time is running out. Everything is moving in slow- motion. Her breathing becomes heavy from the smoke. She slaps him again. Nothing. Another slap. Nothing. Not even his chest is moving. She feels his neck. There’s a heartbeat, but barely.

Charlie’s skin feels numb. The heat that once suffocated her is no longer piercing her body. She thought she might come home to find him dead one day, and he’s as close as she’s ever seen him. Charlie thinks about trying to pick him up. He’s the only blood relative she has, but she hasn’t considered him family for a long time. She pictures herself dragging him through the front door, but her hand subconsciously reaches for her stomach, feeling the gash that his knife left only days ago. She could try to get him out, but it would reopen her wound. Besides, he’s twice her size, and he’s dead weight. She could ask a neighbor to help, but the fire is growing so fast, she would be asking someone to risk their lives for him. No one should have that asked of them.

The fire is continuing to grow, getting closer and closer. She’s out of time. Her grip tightens around the trash bag with her stuff, and she walks swiftly through the front door. The cool, November wind blows her hair out of her face as she steps outside. The ground feels as if it’s fallen from beneath her feet, leaving only smoke in its place as she glides to the street. A few robed neighbors are standing in their driveways, watching her as she leaves the remnants of her childhood home behind. Her life, like the house, is up in flames. No family. Her last living relative just abandoned her to jump across the barrier separating her world from the next one. No friends. Her life is fucked up enough. She didn’t want to invite other unsuspecting teens into her chaos. She had no one.

The single, middle-aged woman that lives next door joins Charlie in the street as she turns to stare back at the house. Charlie remembers her name is Jodie. They spoke a few months ago when she moved in. Jodie noticed the bruise that was starting to appear on Charlie’s right forearm from that morning, but she didn’t ask how she got it. She just brought Charlie inside and gave her an icepack before helping her with her homework. Every once in a while, Charlie will come home to a paper plate of food on the table by the front door, an invitation to join her for a game of chess or a movie or just some time away. Only an hour ago Charlie had come home to a plate of lasagna, but she decided not to take her invitation, wanting only to eat and go to sleep early in her own bed.

The soft sound of sirens in the distance reaches Charlie’s ears, just as Jodie speaks. “I’ve already called the fire department,” Jodie says, grabbing the bag from Charlie’s hand. Jodie’s clearly shaken up about the situation, but she tries her best to keep her voice calm. Charlie doesn’t say anything at first, but when Jodie squeezes her hand, she squeezes back. “Do you know what happened?”

Instead of answering immediately, Charlie sits on the curb across from the house, exhausted from the events of the last five minutes. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since she was sitting on her bed with Toasty. Silence passes between them and the only sound on the street comes from the house creaking and moaning as it’s torn apart by the pyre. Jodie joins her on the curb, running a hand along Charlie’s back and squinting at the light from the flames.

“Liam.” Charlie pauses, taking her time to explain as she pictures Liam on the couch. “He was drunk. He turned on the gas stove.” She isn’t looking at Jodie. “He threw his whiskey bottle at the burner...” Her voice is dry and light. “He’s still inside.” The hand on her back stops for a second before starting again, a little harder.

Jodie continues to talk. To Charlie or whoever else is around, she doesn’t know. Charlie doesn’t hear any of it, choosing to just watch the house as the fire department arrives. The light from the fire illuminates the Mississippi air, highlighting the purgatory she’s been living in. Singed cicadas fly overhead. Charred cicadas, still aflame, litter the ground. The numbness of her skin is starting to dissipate. She can feel the roughness of the concrete under her, and the heat from the house creeps back in. Her body starts to hurt. Her chest tightens. Her arms unconsciously wrap themselves around her. The only home she’s ever known is burning to the ground in front of her, but all she feels is her body relaxing from the tension. She’s sore, but she greets the feeling as it fills her. Tears fall from her eyes, but she doesn’t feel them as they travel down her face, chin, and throat, reaching her ripped t-shirt. Her lungs still hurt from the smoke, but she breathes better than she has in a long time.

She watches as firefighters run inside, making a desperate attempt to save her brother. Before she can even tell them to stop, Charlie’s view of the house is completely obstructed by a paramedic, snapping her attention back to those around her.

“Hi, honey. I was told you were in the house when the fire first started. I need you to come to the ambulance with me so I can check you out,” the paramedic tells her, already grabbing Charlie’s arms to help her stand. Jodie grabs the bag of Charlie’s belongings and follows them to the ambulance. The paramedics start their assessment, and it doesn’t take long before the bruises and the cut on her stomach are noticed.

“Call CPS. Police will be here soon for the fire anyway, but this will need to be filed in a report,” one of the paramedics says. He turns to Jodie to ask a question before turning to Charlie. “Charlie, is it? Can you tell me who did this to you?”

For the next few minutes, the story of Charlie’s last two years with her brother is unfolded to the strangers around her. The nights he came home drunk, the smashed bottles around the house, the fights that left her raiding the old first aid kit in the bathroom, and even the time he threw her against the wall are all written down by one of the paramedics on sight. Not long after, a CPS case worker takes the place of the paramedic. She doesn’t introduce herself, instead choosing to keep Charlie talking and asks her more specific questions: Were you ever knocked unconscious? Did you ever call the police? Did he ever force himself on you? Where is he now? The last question was the easiest one to answer.

“Inside,” she says simply. The CPS worker turns to Jodie, but she doesn’t say anything. She just points at the house, still flaming away behind her. The worker takes a sharp breath and closes her notebook. She hurriedly yells at the firefighters that there may be someone inside, making their pace quicken as they prepare to enter.

“Then we should find you someplace to live after you’re released from the hospital,” the CPS lady says, trying to remain calm and giving the paramedics the all-clear to take their patient.

The hours after are a blur for Charlie, but everything has eased now as she lays in a hospital bed. The police that got her statement are gone. The doctors have finished their assessment. Bandages are wrapped around her stomach, surrounding the now properly treated cut. All scans are clean, and her lungs are mostly clear of smoke. ‘You can go home tomorrow,’ they told her. What home?

“Charlie,” Jodie says, getting her attention. Charlie turns away from the handwashing poster on the wall and looks at the woman beside her. The harsh lighting allows her to get a good look at Jodie, and she can see wrinkles forming around her eyes and on her forehead. Her eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, but she forces a warm smile to brighten them. Charlie smiles back, for the first time in a while.

The moment Charlie allows herself to smile, the rest of her emotions scratch their way to the surface, demanding to be felt. A mangled cry is pulled from her throat, and all of the hatred she’s bottled-up shatters around her. She clings to Jodie, whose arms are wrapped around Charlie as tightly as possible without hurting her. As Charlie’s tears slide onto the bed, Jodie silently cries with her, feeling the gravity of what’s been happening right next door.

“Listen,” Jodie whispers, pulling away gently. “I’ve talked to the police. You said that Liam was still inside when you left, correct?” Jodie’s voice is careful, making Charlie tense slightly as she nods. “Well once the fire was out and they were able to assess the damage, they tried to recover his body...” Jodie trails off, thinking about her next words. “They haven’t found any remains. The police are looking for him now, but they haven’t found him yet. They’re not sure he stayed in the house.” The tears that were starting to slow down pick back up as Charlie processes Jodie’s words.

“Wow,” Charlie breathes. The relief she felt watching her house burn is gone now, replaced by fear, and all she can do is keep letting out small, muffled cries as she holds onto Jodie once again. “I thought I was leaving him to die,” Charlie manages to get out, her voice softer than a whisper.

“You never would have gotten both of you out. You did the right thing,” Jodie replies, stroking Charlie’s hair gently. I know I did, Charlie thinks. I just wish I made sure he was dead before I left him in that fire. No other words pass between them for the night, and Jodie leaves around 4:00 am to get some sleep, promising to return in the morning. Charlie is left alone in her hospital room. Toasty is her only company. For the first time in years, despite not knowing what happened to Liam, her body allows her to rest.

Silence. Peace. No glasses are breaking downstairs. There will be no spilled alcohol to clean up in the morning. She won’t find drugs in the laundry. Life will have some semblance of normalcy again, no matter where she ends up. Charlie smiles again, for the second time tonight, and the second time in the last few years. A streetlight outside the window suddenly turns on, shining like a spotlight on her through the blinds.

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