Temper: Prologue

My eyes fly open.

I'm sitting on the floor of a dingy and unfamiliar kitchen and my hands are caked over with dried blood.  Whether it's my own or someone else's, I can't be sure.  I can hardly hear my own breathing over my pounding heart.  There's a stinging pain on the right side of my face and I raise two fingers up to touch it.  It's sticky with congealing blood; there's a large gash across my cheek and I have no recollection of how it got there.
A familiar sort of confused terror washes over me, a feeling I had felt only once before. I had happened to be in a similar situation, one I only escaped by sheer luck; I shudder at the memory and hug my knees up to my chest as I cautiously turn my head to get my bearings, afraid of what might be there.
A broken plate and scattered food cover the floor… It seems I interrupted someone's dinner. To the left, against the far wall, there is a high chair and a baby's bottle filled with milk. I have to assume there is – or at least was, an infant in this house. I don't know what happened, but knowing the severity of my blackouts, it would be foolish to assume anyone is still alive in the house right now. Suddenly I feel absolutely sick to my stomach. Oh my god.
I know I have to deal with this situation. But, racked with fear and my mind racing, I'm highly opposed to the thought of leaving the kitchen. My gut feeling tells me that I won't like what I will see. I decide to take it slow and just peer around the wall I sit against. My eyes probe the entrance to what looks like the living room and at first I see nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I see something move. From what looks to be the hallway is pool of blood slowly advancing toward the kitchen, seeping into the cracks of the linoleum floor. I gape in horror as a wave of nausea washes over me and I feel as if I'm going to faint. Hiding from my own mess once again, with the yellowing and paint-chipped wall serving as the wall to my safe haven, I lie down and think. More than anything, I want to curl up in a ball right here and ponder how I could have gotten into such a mess. What in the hell was wrong with me? I would rather sit here and cry than save my own ass. Clearly, I wasn't a murderer.

"What have I done?" I whisper to myself.

I know from experience that this can only mean one thing, and I struggle to remember. But, of course, that's an impossible. Damn blackouts. I'm starting to think it would be safer for everyone if I was in an insane asylum – My worst fear, maybe besides having killed someone without my knowledge. I couldn't sit here, I knew that. I  knew that what I had to do was too important. There was a window in this kitchen; One that needed replacing, but nonetheless, a window. It was dark outside. Last I could remember it was 5:30 in the afternoon, bright and sunny. I had never had a blackout last for more than two hours before, and that ended just as bad as I imagined this nightmare would. Upon this realization, I panic. What time is it? How did I end up here?
I was in Phoenix, Arizona staying in room at a Days Inn hotel in Scottsdale. My single and formerly depressed father has been recovering from a recent car accident, and I could tell from his abnormally infrequent calls and strange behaviour over the phone that he wasn't doing well. He seemed absent and aloof and seemed to be forgetting simple things, like the day him and my mother got married. She passed away from cancer long ago, when I was only seven, but that was no excuse to forget something so significant. I thought maybe he stopped taking his medication and his depression was worsening, or something was wrong with his recovery that he wasn't saying. Regardless, something wasn't right and I knew I had to be with him.
My choice to move from my father's beautiful Cedar Rapids home in Iowa, the house where I grew up, to my new California condo had separated us by five states. I had been travelling from city to city for the past day and, tired of driving, I decided to get a Hotel room for the night. I can remember getting a call on my hotel room phone; a stranger called to tell me something. I remember being confused at first, but that confusion soon gave way to an indescribable rage. I know it was crucial information, but I can't recall what it was. I exploded in anger, and that's the last thing I can remember. It always starts that way – and then there is nothing.
I could sit and think all day, but there were more pressing matters to deal with right now. I didn't know what I'd touched, or who was alive in the building. I heave a sad and exasperated sigh as I get up. Twenty-two years old, and I felt eighty. I had never felt so weak in my life.
I quickly wash the blood from my face and hands in the kitchen sink before leaving the kitchen. Being careful not to step in any blood, I stare straight ahead. Using my sleeve to open doors, just in case my plan didn't work, I look for a bedroom. The first door I open seems to be for storage, with a screen door on the right to what looked like a garage. As I cross the door's threshold, I see exactly what I need. Placed conveniently atop an old-looking grill I find a working barbeque lighter, and not far from that, two red containers full of gasoline. It feels so wrong to be relieved about this. I exit the garage with my supplies and find the bedroom easily. Since mine were bloodstained, I had to find a change of clothes. It's apparent that whoever they belonged to were small; the hem of the shabby grey fleece sweater I picked out was a tight fit, and I was just able to squeeze into the dark wash denim jeans I donned.
Just in case, walk out of the bedroom and yell out into the house and listen for a response.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
No answer.
There wasn't time to hesitate, and I certainly wasn't going back to scope out the crime scene. Praying this wasn't a duplex, I picked up a gasoline container and began to twist the cap off. Dreading the task before me, I went in search of some rags. I knew exactly what I had to do; I had a feeling this was going to be a long night.

- -      -

In a dreamlike state I stroll away from the house as casually as possible, trying to stay hidden in the darkness of the shadows. It couldn't look good to be seen walking away from a burning building. Thankfully, it looks like a rather deserted part of town. Even the house I had set ablaze looked like an abandoned warehouse of some sort, blending in with everything else on the street. All around me I see small one-story houses with empty driveways and abandoned buildings with boarded up windows. It reminded me of an old western movie, with the street itself accentuated by the vast desert plateau behind it.
I stare up at the moon and I don't see the house as it goes up in flames, but I certainly know what I'd done. I can hear the crackle of fire as flames envelop the building and I sigh. If only I could forget this as easily as I forgot what had made it necessary. Fortunately, the hardest part was over; now all I had to do was get back to my hotel and hope they wouldn't find me before I could get out of the state tomorrow.
I now walk at a brisk pace as I turn the corner of a street called East Weldon. I recognize where I am now as what people would consider to be one of the worst parts of Phoenix. It wasn't awfully far from my hotel, and there was a corner store relatively close to where I was where I could get directions back to my hotel.
With the events of the night racing through my head, a feeling of dread settles over me and weighs down on me like a wet blanket. I'm anxious to get back to my hotel and sleep away the horrible thoughts, and I can't help but feel selfish for it. I take a deep breath of the humid desert air as I turn another corner down East Columbus Avenue. Somewhere far off, I hear sirens blaring.