You limp up to your office. Everything is on fire, except for the skeleton, who is sitting in the corner chair, still smoking. The de Wit is a pyre.

 

You think of Ben. You think of the weight of his body next to yours, the way he lead you through the snow when you went camping. The time he woke you up to show you the coyotes trotting across the silent yard, the galloping deer. It was so beautiful, it was so right. And you thought this was it, this was why you lived, to be here for those moments, warm in the body heat of the person who loved you most.

 

You walk over to the skeleton, lean down, and pluck the cigarette from its teeth. You kiss it hard.

 

The turpentine was already in a glass jar. You unscrew the lid and upturn it over your head. It drips down your face, the sharp smell crowding out fear. You toss the jar aside. You touch the burning end of the cigarette to your wet shirt. The scent of turpentine is replaced by burning hair and skin.

 

From inside the flames, you can see the skeleton watching you. It—he—is saying something, but you cannot hear anything but a roaring in your ears, like a great wave bearing down on the whole world.

 

 

THE END.