Stirring Point

She wasn’t anything special, but then neither was I. Together, we were the perfect wreck: twisted metal and burning tires tangled in ruinous debris. We met the world that way, too. Running red lights, screaming through turns—a headlong dash toward our shared collapse. When her spark met my fuel, flames were the only possible outcome. 

Predictability was left for the zombies around us. They spent their nights watching trash TV and their days in jobs they despised. Investments, paint swatches, trips to Target. Those people were already dead, yet no one had the decency to tell them. We’ll be their canaries, we said, warning them of the noxious gases of normalcy. Water, sunlight, and real experiences were all they needed. But their minds were dying on the vine. We ransacked our days for a taste of real living while they waited for death in the checkout lane at Costco.

When I say she wasn’t anything special, that’s mostly true. She ignored the poor, despised “success,” and spit in the direction of the world’s pain. But when the sun spilled across her face, her eyes became the archetype. Their barbs and hooks lured me in on her line. Without them, I felt helpless in the world.

And to say I wasn’t special was an understatement. Wide-eyed do-gooders looked like morons to me, and the power players the world over were a likely cabal. Where did that leave me? High on a throne of hypocrisy. I wasn’t a thinker. I reacted to the world, and that was enough. Reactions were natural and easy. But it never mattered. Nothing did, really. Until I met her. 

What is it about a woman that celebrates destruction? Let me clarify. She wasn’t some wingnut eager to watch the world burn. Destruction in the modern day was a form of altruism to her. Our social constructs were built on shoddy footing. Now, the foundation was sinking and everything had to go. This idea wasn’t novel, of course. Pop culture had twisted this plotline into superhero sequels for years. We focused on the wrong things and cared about meaningless crap. We tried buying our way to happiness instead of living our way to happiness. Sound familiar?

If it weren’t for those eyes, though, she’d have been just another tinfoil-hat philosopher at my local bar. It was the way they bored through me, to a depth of gut and viscera beneath my skin, that stole the world’s air. A single glance shattered my vision of a life alone. Do you feel that? her eyes asked. You’ve just found salvation. 

She needed reckless abandon, a partner in life’s despair, someone to push in all their chips without hesitating. Her gaze sealed our pact and we knew it instantly. I steadied myself and stood to approach her. She watched carefully for a moment, then nodded towards the door. I fished a few bills from my pocket, tossed them on the counter and followed her shoulders as they cut a path toward freedom. This would never end well; it couldn’t. But every step felt right. This was the gangplank to my future—a future that would end in a ball of flames.