Page 7 of Watch Me Burn

Regardless, I was dwelling on probabilities that had no bearing on my current predicament. I was barely managing to sustain myself, let alone free a childhood friend from jail. If I could do right by Jacob, that’d be the spark I needed to face another day, then another.

I made my way to my bench, observing the weary-eyed judge as he began to enforce order and recite the verdict.

As predicted, I won Jacob’s case. He wouldn’t do time. My strategy worked. Jacob was looking at eight months of community service, but it was a victory, nonetheless.

My instinct was to embrace Jacob. But every muscle in me was frozen, invisibly tethered to the murmuring jury before me.

Did they relish the spectacle? The drama? The audience at Ethan’s trial certainly did. His family was paraded like a freak show, their addictions and deaths laid bare for all to gawk at. His poor grandmother, despite her efforts, was seen as nothing more than trailer park trash who had birthed yet another societal leech.

Yet it wasn’t my place to judge them. I, too, had watched the proceedings, even believed some of it. To this day, I still couldn’t quite decipher whether I firmly believed in Ethan’s innocence or if the reality was far murkier than I’d like.

And I would never know.

My mother had instated a no-contact order between Ethan and me, leaving us incommunicado. He was likely stewing in hatred for me and the system, and rightly so. Our severed connection still bothered me. I yearned to find him. Confront him. Demand the truth, whatever it might be. But violating the no-contact order would jeopardize us both.

So that was that.

Even I if wanted to see Ethan Wayne again. It just wasn’t possible . . .

Chapter 3

Ethan

The shared space in this halfway house stunk like shit. Literally.

I plopped my duffel bag down on the floor as I ventured into my “kitchen,” which was more like a kitchenette with dirty, cluttered pots and an overflowing sink. I noticed black mold on the ceiling and a cockroach scurried into one of the cabinets.

“Cozy just like Nana’s home,” I mumbled sarcastically. How was I supposed to even cook here? Breathe? Live? It was dirtier that my prison cell.

“Welcome to your new home,” my parole officer, Mr. Rashid, said unempathetically. “Tomorrow, you’ll be expected to start a job search. We are partnered with a brick factory that’s offering salaries up to 25K a year, but if you find a hustle that’s more lucrative, we’re willing to make exceptions.”

Wiping the grime off my hands onto my slacks, I asked, “So, basically, my only two options are to get silicosis from breathing in silica dust or find a unicorn on Indeed?”

Mr. Rashid cocked an eyebrow, then nodded in consideration. “Seems like you’ve caught on. Best of luck!” He dashed out the front door before I could even raise any additional questions.

I shouldn’t have acted like that place was hell on Earth. It was the only roof I had over my head after my grandma’s house was taken by some distant cousin of hers following her death while I was locked up. I had already lived through real hell back then. In that lousy halfway house, I had to deal with thieves, drug addicts, and potential killers, but I did have the privilege of gulping fresh air and walking on green ground. Surely if I opened a window, the odor wouldn’t be that bad.

As I walked past a leather sofa that must’ve been bargained off of a bedbug victim on Facebook Marketplace, a blond guy strolled out of his room.

“Oh hey, you’re the new guy?” He yawned. Stretching his arms over his head, he passed me to fetch a bowl for his Doritos from the kitchen. The needle marks in his arms were obvious.

“Yeah,” I replied, scanning the room, I continued, “So I guess we don’t have a chores chart with our names on it?”

The blondie snorted as if I posed the stupidest question known to mankind. “What, don’t like it? Did you think that folks who use us for panty-sewing and make us wipe our asses with sandpaper would give us a proper home? Get outta here!” He blew his nose aggressively into a tissue, throwing it onto the kitchen counter right onto a cutting board before nestling into the sofa.

Gawking at him, I said, “Why don’t you throw that away, buddy? At least when I’m around.”

“Wooow, looks like we have a mini Mandela here,” the guy mocked. “You gonna print out some house rules for us to follow, too? It’s my day off, I don’t give a flying fuck about shit around here.”

He rammed a mouthful of Doritos into his mouth and turned his attention to the flickering TV screen. I waited a few more moments, hoping he would get up and throw his damn tissue away. But when he didn’t budge, I silently walked up to the TV, switched it off, and then towered right in front of him on the couch. Despite him sitting, it was obvious that he was at least a whole head shorter than me. Just a scrawny little pile of skin and bones, never touched a damn weight in his life. I understood why he acted the way he did. Hell, for all I knew, he swaggered into this halfway house with the same attitude as me. Full of hope and ready to make some damn changes, only to realize that we’d be slaves to the system’s bullshit until we ended up in a damn coffin. No good job would give either of us a chance. They’d see a “junkie” and a “murderer.” One judge’s ruling was all it took to fuck up our lives. Maybe it was rightfully so in blondie’s case here, but sure as shit not in mine.

Blondie nervously glanced at me and then quickly looked away, squirming in his seat like a little child.

“You . . . you’re the guy who did time for murder, right?” he stuttered.

I crossed my arms, just staring at him in silence, relishing in his discomfort, which only made him more nervous.

“Were . . . were you gonna use that shit?” he stammered, pointing toward the kitchen.

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