Page 8 of The Firefighter's Fate

This is bad. This is so very bad.

“When does he want me?” I ask tentatively.

“Now.”

3

CONNOR

I nurse my beer and really try my very best to engage in conversation with my firefighter colleagues, but I’m feeling so damn tired. I can barely listen. I can barely keep my eyes open. I just want to rest my head on this fucking table and take the longest nap in the world.

This week has been a tough one with the amount of hard work we’ve had to do as a team, never mind the fact that my own father came by the station to hurl his words of disappointment my way. The firefighting work I was ready for, but I was not ready for my father’s confrontation. I don’t ever want to show that his utterances can sting me, but they undoubtedly have.

You’re wasting your life, Connor.

That’s the venom he spat at me.

And I let it wash over me. I let it in through my defenses. I let it fucking sting...

“You okay, man?” Eric asks me, coldly hauling my ass out of my memories and back to reality.

I look up from my cold beer at my friend. Eric is another firefighter at Crystal River’s sole fire station. He’s a loyal guy. A damn good man. A close buddy of mine. He’s wearing the Crystal River’s firefighter’s uniform – a deep blue polo shirt with the title of the town’s firefighter department printed in large white letters on the back. He’s clean-shaven. Crewcut brown hair. The same age as me, nearing our thirties. He takes good care of himself.

I wish I took care of myself like that...

Instead of being a lonely bastard who hasn’t shaved in a hell of a long time.

We’re sitting in a bar one town over from Crystal River. We drove here after an uneventful job and decided to clock out early. The last job of the long, hard week – done. Cold beers are better than boring paperwork back at the station. And so I’m surrounded by ten of my best friends – my only friends. We firefighters stick together no matter what. No other friendship group could compare to what we have. We’re like family. The other guys are all chatting peacefully amongst themselves, and I’m still nursing that beer and thinking of how inviting this table would be to rest my head for a moment’s siesta.

“I’m good,” I reply to my best man. It’s a grumble - very characteristic of me.

Eric regards me suspiciously but knows me well enough to understand he won’t get another word out of me about how I’m feeling. I don’t let much slip through my battlements.

“What did you do on your days off last week?” he asks. “You never said what you got up to.”

“Not much,” I reply.

Another grumble.

Yeah, I’m not great at the whole conversation thing.

I am a man of few words, and Eric knows that. People have said I’m a serious man... that I’m grumpy. I am not grumpy... I just don’t find the need to be so damn cheerful all the time. I do my job well and I stick to myself. Does anyone expect anything more than that?

That’s why I became a firefighter. It’s not really an occupation known for its people skills and extroverted nature - you simply have to do the manual work well and save lives.

No one expects you to speak small talk when you’re wearing more protective gear than a soldier on the front lines.

“You just sat around and did nothing on your days off, then?” Eric asks.

Oh, he’s trying to prod the beast. I get it.

But I’m not going to let him.

I think about what I really did on my days off last week... where I went... how I will never tell another soul on this planet about that...

I’m not even going to tell Eric.

“I had peace,” I reply. “Solitude.”

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