No Time to Explain
4/30/23 - sorry, not time to explain!
image prompt based off an image of a guy holding a molotov which of course made me think of my son. has he actually attempted arson? who knows. he sucks. he's always on 15 different drugs. he mightve. i still have the image printed out in my writing folder
Two people, hidden underneath large hoodies, walked down the quietest bowels of the city, away from the light and any prying eyes. They hold a pack of liquor and nothing more, their other hands stuffed into their pockets.
“This is really, really stupid,” one of them whispers to the other. “You sure you have a solid plan out of here?”
“‘Course I do.” The other spoke at normal volume with seemingly no fear, no worries in that voice of theirs. “Just follow my moves.”
“I sure hope you’re actually gonna give me my half of the deal after this, man.”
“Ah.” The other reaches into their other pocket and pulls out an unkempt, sweaty wad of cash. “Here. When we’re done, you can get it. Okay?”
The first voice sighs and picks up the pace.
They arrive at a lone apartment building, and the second stops and lowers the pack of liquor onto the ground with a clank.
“‘Ere it is. That bastard’s apartment.”
“An—An apartment?!” The other hissed under their breath. “You have to be kidding me! Farrow, holy shit, do you have any idea how many people could g—”
The other, Farrow, holds out that wad of cash one more time and waggles it around teasingly. His friend seems to shut up at the sight of it. “Just follow my lead, man. Trust me.” He bends over and grabs a bottle from the pack and pops it open, taking a great swig. It wasn’t his first of his night, and no matter if things go his way or not, it won’t be his last. “Here, Trev. Enjoy some while you still can. We might be going to super prison if we get caught here. That means no more shows and no more booze.”
Trevor hesitates before reaching out and taking the bottle from the guitarist’s scarred up, calloused hand. He takes a sip with shaky hands and returns the bottle.
“Stuff sheet scraps in the bottles. We make one each, rest is fuel. Let’s get it.”
They walk into the apartment building and straight for the elevator unnoticed. Farrow finally pulls his hood up, hiding his messy undercut and inconspicuous bleached hair. Trevor’s stomach begins to do flips.
When they reach apartment door number eight they stop before it and exchange a glance. Farrow pulls out some keys from his pocket. Trevor peers into the window and, through its inky darkness, he can see his own reflection. It is of a lanky, weak-looking man with wide eyes, much often compared to the squirrel from that movie about the prehistoric ice age, or something. He never really listens to Farrow’s rambling insults, as they tend to become background noise endured for the nice paycheck at the end of their shows.
“Still have the keys,” he says with a smile creeping up his face.
“You’re fucked.”
“Nope. He just never thought to take ‘em back.” He lets out a stifled giggle before inserting the keys into the door and opening it up.
“Hold on—isn’t he—isn’t he in there?!”
“Eh. Heavy sleeper. C’mon in.”
They creep into the apartment room and leave the door open. Following Farrow’s lead, Trevor begins to pour out alcohol all around the home, leaving only the bedroom untouched. The apartment is quite messy, with wrappers, CD cases, notebooks and clothes laying around in inconvenient places. They can hear the sound of faint snoring from the bedroom as they work, and with each snore Trevor can feel more and more of his soul leaving his body.
He lets out a great sigh and takes one final chug of liquor before tossing that bottle to the ground. It rolls off into the kitchen.
“Alright, great, Trev. Now let’s get this going…” Farrow takes a lighter from his pocket and grins. “C’mere.” They quickly back away into the doorway, and—
It only takes a few seconds, but in the moment, every second feels multiplied and rattled in Trevor’s head like an alarm bell. He grabs Farrow’s arm tightly and shoves him down using as much of his force as he can. It isn’t much, but he manages to toss him down.
“Dude, what the f—” Trevor sends his shoe into his face and kicks him aside. He slams the door shut in his face and barricades it, keeping him locked inside.
“Trev! Trevor, you fucking prick, if you don’t—if you don’t open this, I’ll—Trevor!” Now it is Farrow’s turn to whisper-yell, and he’s practically clawing at the door in fear of making any more noise. Trevor takes his phone out of his back pocket and punches in a number in a hurry.
“Yeah? Phoebe? Can you pick me up?” His meek voice is heard amongst the scratching of the door behind him and Farrow’s muffled screeches. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s Farrow. Mmhm. No, we didn’t take the tour van, thank god. He’s going kind of crazy again. Oh yeah, can you call the police for me…? I dunno, I—yeah. Thanks.”
Trevor lets out a shaky breath and hangs up, continuing to hold Farrow hostage in his ex’s apartment. “Man, you’re fuckin’ nuts,” he sighs. “Just give up, man. Maybe this’ll be good for the both of us, y’know? You get some time to think in the slammer, and Phoebs and I get time away from you…” He rubs his eyes. “And your ex can finally breathe. Seriously, arson?!”
“He is not my ex,” Farrow hisses, “and you have no fuckin’ right to tell me what’s good for me or not. Let me out now or I’m gonna take all three of us down you dumb son of a bitch.”
Trevor feels his heart start pounding, but he holds his place. “No, Farrow. You need real, actual consequences. This has gone way too far, alright?”
Farrow continues scratching and begins even pounding at the door, each pound bringing Trevor’s eyes to a tighter squeeze shut. Eventually it just…stops, though. He stops, and Trevor can only hear the jangling of his accessories and the rustle of his clothes as he moves. He doesn’t think much of it, but then he hears a lighter click.
“...Dude?” Trevor turns around, and there’s no more pressure against the door. He looks down and realizes the pack of liquor is still locked inside. “...Dude, dude!”
It’s too late. He hears the huff of a fire coming to life, the sound of two bottles being shattered against the ground. The door behind him gets blown out from a sudden burst of flame, and he feels a wave of heat overtake him. He rolls to a stop a few feet before the doorway, and all he can feel is white hot heat and pain.
From inside, the apartment bursts into flames, white hot flames licking their way up the spilled alcohol and illuminating the dark night like the sun. From them stumbles Farrow, hand to his mouth but eyes wide and manic, a large grin hidden beneath his palm.
Trevor coughs and cranes his head up, eyes still focusing. He’s met with the blurry image of four, three, two Farrows, and his eyes try to fix the doubled image swirling before him. The fireside angel extends his ashen hand and gives him a big, toothy grin, his own blood smeared down his face.
“Get up, asshole, we’re getting out of here.” Shards of glass poke out from his cheek. A few are dug into his hand, and cut into Trevor’s as he grabs hold of it.
“Hrk…Farrow, you’re…” He can’t finish his sentence before the other yanks him up to his feet, shoves his arm under Trevor’s armpit, and begins to lug him around as he bolts it to the stairs. As they make a run for it Trevor manages to catch a glance at his reflection in the window. Carried on Farrow’s back he looks defeated, eyes still wide and terrified, but the bags underneath them being almost highlighted by the slivers of moonlight. Farrow on the other hand, looks like he should’ve been dead long ago, but he’s used to that. The guy seems to slip his way out of death even if the world would be better off without him, and it irritates and confuses Trevor, but not enough to expend any more energy that he’d be better off using to just fall limp and let the wheel be steered for him. The window is promptly shattered by Farrow to make a quicker exit, scattering the last shards of his reflection all over the cold concrete. He curses as his sneakers crunch into the pointed shards, but keeps running, leaving the scene behind.
Behind them, an apartment burns. In front of them, their drummer’s van takes a sweeping turn into their street. And farther behind them, the police begin to show up.
“Oh, Phoebs?! What a fuckin’ save! Thanks, Trev!” Farrow shouts to Trevor, who can do nothing but watch as Farrow’s perfect escape plan unfolds before them. He can do nothing, just be swept along and thrown into the back of a moving van by someone he hates and driven away to god knows where because God knows Phoebe wouldn’t take them back to their home with a wanted criminal riding shotgun.
“You aren’t supposed to be here, y’know,” she mutters to Farrow, who had tossed himself into the passenger seat. “Did you just set that guy’s house on fire?”
“Apartment,” Farrow corrected. “And yes. Less talking, more driving, get—MOVE!” He reaches over and tries to grab the wheel, but Phoebe’s reaction time is fast enough to swerve them out of the way of an oncoming police car and into a narrow alley. The van shakes and scrapes against stone underneath and bricks sandwiching it in, but eventually breaks out of the alley and back into the street. They turn now onto an empty road, and drive away unharmed.
In the back of the van Trevor watches through the windows as the burning building grows smaller and smaller behind them, until its burning light is reduced to a small stain on the otherwise dark night horizon.
He sighs and reaches over for the familiar pack of beer stored away in the back, just for occasions like this. Farrow would go completely manic, get him and Trevor into some trouble, nearly get killed, and eventually one way or another, no matter how hard Trevor tried to thrash him out of it, he’d end up in the back of Phoebe’s van driving away from a potential life sentence.
“Hey, Trevs, babe, toss me a can!” Farrow’s voice shouts from the front, as grating as ever. As he pokes his head out from behind the car seat, shards of glass fall from his cheek onto the dirty floor below.
Before crawling up to toss one his way, Trevor sighs and takes a long, deep swig of his own can.
He knows it won’t be his last for a very long time.