Burn

Abstract

Burn Henriette Rostrup (bio) Translated by Thom Satterlee (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution A girl executes her escape plan, with one unexpected twist at the end. [End Page 28] She walks through the house. It’s quiet now; everyone’s sleeping. Behind the bedroom door she can hear her father’s deep, relaxed breathing: hiss when he inhales, snort when he exhales. She stands waiting, waiting to hear if maybe this next time he doesn’t exhale. But he does, he always does. The bed creaks as he rolls over. Or maybe it’s her mother, turning away from him. The way she’s always turning away from him. Her heart beats faster. She tries to take deep breaths, from all the way down in the pit of her stomach, so she can watch it happen. Then breathe out slowly, without a sound. She mustn’t be scared. She can be scared later. She closes her eyes for a moment before moving on. A floorboard creaks. She stops, listens. Did they hear her? But the only sound in the house is people sleeping. Their breathing, the bed creaking. If you didn’t know better you’d think this was one of those houses where everyone slept through the night, peaceful and calm. Down the stairs and into the living room, with the remains of last night’s party still scattered on the tables. Empty beer cans and liquor bottles, half-empty bowls of stale chips, and overflowing ashtrays that give the living room a sour, ashy smell. On the dining table there are several half-full glasses of what’s probably rum and Coke. She takes one and gulps it down. The sweet, lukewarm liquid burns her throat; she coughs as quietly as she can, holding her hand over her mouth. There’s a creak from the leather sofa, and she turns. One of the men from the party is lying there. She doesn’t recognize him, but now and then they all look the same. She walks up to him. His shirt’s come untucked and the soft flesh of his belly spills over the waistline of his pants. There’s a strip of black hair running down under his belt. She feels queasy. The aftertaste of rum and Coke fills her mouth. And something sour. He grunts a little in his sleep, smacks his lips contentedly, and turns partway round on the sofa as if she didn’t exist. From the coffee table she takes an empty bottle, the one with a pirate captain on its label, and lifts it over his head. Stands with both arms raised ready to bring it down with full force if he wakes up. He makes a little whimper, a sigh, and she can see his eyes darting back and forth under his eyelids. But he doesn’t wake up. Just settling back down. She returns the bottle to its place . . . quiet, quiet. She tries not to make any sound at all as she passes from the living room to the kitchen. She moves as quickly and purposefully as she can but at the same time painstakingly slow, not wanting to make any noise. In her mind, night after night, she has rehearsed her movements through this house. The door between the kitchen and garage sticks; it hasn’t been used in so long. She’s at the point of giving up when it finally gives way with a jerk. She loses her balance and has to reach out behind her. The garbage bag that always hangs on the door falls off and spills its contents on the kitchen floor, which was already dirty. She stands there in an awkward posture holding her breath, listening, but she doesn’t hear anything from the living room or upstairs. Then she kicks the bag aside, straightens up, and steps over the garbage and out into the garage. It’s been a long time since a car was parked here. The space is crammed with junk, old moving boxes her father keeps with odds and ends he thinks he’ll need someday: canned goods, mildewed books, a broken record player. An...