A Life On Fire Read Online Free Page B

taken aback, and looked as if he may cry. “I-I’m thirty-seven.”
       “Thirty-seven. You’re thirty-seven fucking years old, and you’ve never seen scissors before?”
       At that, Mr. Holman did begin to cry. “One knife is good for cutting things. I thought two would be better,” he sniffled.
       “Un-fucking-believable. You thought two would be better. What the fuck is the matter with you?” Gerald turned abruptly and walked away. He didn’t think Mr. Holman would have the courage to speak with his superiors, but either way, he didn’t give a shit. He’d had more than enough of this asshole.
       “Why are you being so mean to me?” Mr. Holman said, following Gerald.
       “Because you’re a fucking idiot,” Gerald yelled over his shoulder, picking up his pace.
       “Just let me show you how the double-knife works!” Mr. Holman began to run toward Gerald, brandishing his bastardized-scissors. He was now sobbing, strings of mucus pouring from his nose. The closer he got to Gerald, the more it sounded like he wasn’t sobbing exactly, but laughing a little, too.
       “Quit following me, weirdo,” Gerald said, now running. He didn’t think he’d have time to unlock his car and get in before Mr. Holman caught up with him, so he ran past it. He looked for a good escape route, but lacking any, settled on hauling ass away from the guy.
       The chase continued all the way across the parking lot for Gerald’s building, in front of a Taco Bell, and beside a Kentucky Fried Chicken, when Gerald changed his route to cross the street. Mr. Holman, apparently fueled by his hysteria, was gaining on him. “Shit,” Gerald said, trying to run faster.
       He made it half way across the street when he heard “Yee-hooo!” Turning to look, Gerald saw Mr. Holman run into the street, right in front of the green pickup truck with the Confederate flag. Gerald screamed “Stop!” but it was no use. The truck plowed right into Mr. Holman, his body exploding upon impact.
       “Holy shit!” Gerald screamed. The truck didn’t even slow down, as if running down pedestrians was an everyday thing. With another “Yee-hooo!” the truck disappeared around a corner.
       Having never witnessed a hit-and-run, Gerald wasn’t sure exactly what he should do. There was obviously nothing to be done for Mr. Holman, whose arms, legs, and head were strewn about the street. His body was nothing more than bloody chunks, some pieces held together by shredded tendons or pieces of intestine. Strangely, his lungs had landed several feet from Gerald, completely intact.
       After brief consideration, Gerald thought the best thing he could do would be to get the hell out of there. His first instinct was to run, but he decided he would be better off acting calm and nonchalant. As slowly and carelessly as he could be, he took a somewhat roundabout way back to his car, and drove out of the lot. Not knowing exactly what he should do, he drove aimlessly, taking random turns, attempting to get lost.
        Jesus, if I’d stopped and talked to the guy for a minute, instead of being an asshole, he wouldn’t have died , he thought.
        And if he had looked before running into the street, he wouldn’t have died, a voice said. True as this was, Gerald wasn’t sure he should try to talk himself out of feeling responsible for what happened. Yes, Mr. Holman was an idiot, but that certainly shouldn’t condemn him to such a grotesque death. Still, had Gerald done anything besides state the obvious before trying to avoid an increasingly uncomfortable situation? Wouldn’t anyone in his right mind have probably done the same thing?
       “I need a fucking drink,” he said, pulling into a gas station.
       
       
    Gerald looked around the gas station, more than a little confused as to why it was empty. No, empty wasn’t the right word. The shelves and coolers were as full as one would expect them to