Brottför
Her eyes match the color of the bright blowtorch flame. A pale blue illuminating the basement, each one of her pupils following the inner cone of the vivid burst.
They say that acetylene burns at close to 6,300 degrees Fahrenheit. When the pencil-thin flame hits skin, the nerve endings curl and die immediately, leaving the person with the feeling of ice cubes slithering down his or her back.
She can tell this is coming, and she cries. I stroke her dirty blonde hair and wipe the discharge from her eyes. My brown gloves must feel rough on her cheeks.
When I turn her chair around, she sees the setup in front of me. The surgical tools gleam against the single drop of moonlight peeking in through the basement window. Mosquitoes gather outside, a congregation on this summer night.
Inside, I lean against the wall. She continues to cry.
Spending a night alone with one of God’s mistakes is something she’ll remember forever. It’ll be something she’ll see beyond the darkness for the rest of her life.
I switch off the valve and take a deep breath. Bringing the end towards her face, I let each of her eyes feel the warmth around the tube. She tries to shout.
With a smile, I turn on the valve and let the toothy splintering flame dance in front of her.
Ice cream, I tell her. Think of a popsicle, baby.