From the Flames

I am Florence. Florence McCarson. I was the leader singer of The Lost Souls. I thought it was a funny band name, back then, when it didn’t matter whether I was going to Heaven or Hell. I didn’t believe in either place, until I died.

It was February 19, 1995. I was singing “From Paradise” in the Newman Theatre in New York City. The crowd was screaming my name. I was playing my guitar, doing more slides than I probably needed to, and everyone was dancing to the beat. It was like we were all under one trance. Like we were all headed to Heaven, or something like it. The closest we could get to that here on earth. I thought I saw a redhead from the corner of my eye, with long hair and a black lace corset on. I kept looking at her.

She’s beautiful.

I’d thought to myself, then kept playing like I always had: I couldn’t let anything stop me, ever. The show must go on, as they say, and, oh boy, did it go on. The rain came down like tears from Heaven and I kept playing and playing. You might be wondering why I’m using Biblical terms so much. Well, it’s precisely because I was an unbeliever, but I’m a believer now—I’ve been forced to be.

The drummer was swaying back and forth to the beats he was making. The bass player strumming sparingly on the strings as he kept the rhythm, and there I was—in the spotlight. The great Florence McCarson. I’d had one too many beers that night, but it just made me play harder. It made me sing louder. It made me put all of my heart and soul into my music. My music had saved me from being a drug dealer, but I still had a few rough edges left from that time: I couldn’t seem to quit alcohol completely, no matter how hard I tried.

Between the bridge and the chorus, a bullet flew through the air and hit me square in the forehead. I fell to the floor. Then another hit me, and, finally, a third. Blood spewed onto the stage as my band mates looked at me in horror. The audience (I think) probably turned and tried to look at the killer, but they saw no one. He’d disappeared. I’d assumed it was a man because women usually aren’t like that, but maybe I’m wrong. There are plenty of angry women in the world, I guess. Lord knows I’ve met a few of them myself.

I’m in Hell now, burning eternally in these flames. I never prayed during my lifetime. I was an atheist. I drank too much and fucked too many women. I’ve probably committed every sin known to mankind: Greed, gluttony, lust, etcetera. I don’t care to go through them all.

I wish I knew who killed me, but I never will. I’ll never find out, unless he—or she, I guess—joins me here and admits to their crime. I’m not looking forward to that. To sharing Hell with my own killer.

My mom, Maureen, she’s grief stricken about what happened. It’s been two years now. I keep an eye on her, but I don’t want to freak her out too much. She tears up every February 19, no matter how long it’s been. The two years have been long ones. Her hair is turning grey earlier than it should, and her clothes are dirtier than they should be. Her hazel eyes look at the floor, and she places her head on my dad’s shoulder, looking for some semblance of comfort from the pain. She’d kept my guitar. The case had a Jimi Hendrix sticker on it because he’d been a hero of mine. She’d put it in my room which she’d left just as it was before I was killed. She’d always kept it for me when I was on tour.

My mother, Maureen McCarson, is everything to me. My father, Jim McCarson, is also a hero of mine. I wish I could see them again, in person. Well, I wish they could see me, I suppose. I visit them on dreary nights, and I think they sense that the energy is different than before, but they can’t see a ghost, no matter how much they wish they could.

On a Friday night in Ireland, my mother was doing laundry and there was a knock on the door. My dad was at work. This was a small little community, full of people who knew and loved or amicably hated each other. She opened the door, thinking it was probably some neighbor she hadn’t kept in touch with who was stopping by. There was a man with a gun. He shot her three times in the head, right between the eyes. She collapsed, blood spewing onto the floor.

I wished I could cry, but I don’t have the ability to anymore. I guess that’s part of being in Hell—not being able to feel your feelings, haunting your loved ones and never being able to be seen, and tumbling around with other lost souls.

I would never see my mom again. She was going to Heaven.

When my father got home, he was torn apart. He bawled, holding onto her dead body and trying to wish her alive. I could tell from the pain on his face.

Years later, I was haunting a forest when I saw a man hung on a tree. His eyes were glassy and he had the same build as the guy who had killed my mother.

Today, I saw him, right next to me in Hell. He was surrounded by flames. He wasn’t even allowed to haunt his family. I might have been a moron, but I wasn’t a murderer. His sin was worse than mine.

“I killed you. I killed her,” he snarled.

“You bastard.”

The flames overtook him once more, and he was fully consumed by the fires of Hell.

That piece of shit deserves his fate.