By Dan Nawaz
Chauncy Clemens was leaping through the bonfire when his dress went up. We were untouchable ‘til then.
We, the Marabella Sarcophagi, danced and took bolt filtre in the ash-fed southern forest every week. Most of us were the children of second generation Pelivosi —so there was never a shortage of cash for our elaborate homemade robes, or for our filtre and booze, and I never felt guilty about taking it.
As Chauncy burned nobody was screaming. We were grieving the end of a lovely time alone, ending before our eyes. He was ever strange to me. Stubborn —could never take no for an answer, that boy, and in truth I was glad of him going even as I watched in that moment.
Bolt filtre made you optimistic though. Like fire blossoming inside you. So when I started hacking him apart the rest became relieved, even enthusiastic to join in. We took parts of Chauncy home and hid him in our bedrooms away from adult eyes. Others —who knows who— fed him to the dog and buried him in the park and ate him and pickled him and asked him what it was like being dead and being everywhere at once. He was only ever taken to the reaches of ourselves, barely out of school mostly, but knowing he had made it out of reach to some secret place beyond sight, many of them began to nurture a sickly envy for the dead boy. I knew it from their look, coming back to the forest parties. From their hushed conversation and red eyed stare.
I learned some weeks later that some of the Sarcophagi had begun bringing their scraps of Chauncy to the dances. I caught Annie Gorbale talking into her hands and yanked her to the treeline.
“Fuck’re you doing Annie?”
“Doing nothing.”
I slapped her curd of a cheek and she dropped him, a blackened thing like tree bark.
“He said he wants to dance.”
“Quit your nonsense, you’re scaring the new kids.”
“But it’s you he wants to dance with,” Annie said with her wet eyes and her butterfly gown, and picked up the charred lump I saw was wrapped in dark, stained gingham like a bridal favour. The air was thick and I felt behind me the dance had slowed. I felt bodies breathing at my back, a whole crowd swaying together. Their presence thrummed as a group of many but more keenly as a single glaring and grave-sour scorn. They felt hot. Smelled like him too, like sour chocolate milk. Not my Sarcophagi anymore. Chauncy’s.
So, we danced. And when Chauncy wanted to kiss we kissed, and I tasted him distilled. And after, when I could breathe again and I was allowed to be scared properly I found myself carrying him still, even in my room, still kissing him when we were alone like he’d always wanted of me.
And it was like playing. Guessing how I might die each time, and when I guessed right at last, just laughing. It was the funniest thing. Laughing together because even Chauncy, even now, he didn’t know himself how it all happened or whatever was coming next.
Outside the streets were dark and cold but dinner was waiting downstairs.
Centre of the Web 