A Combustible Flame

Hi! I am a high school English student investigating the difference between peer editing online and in person. I would be very grateful if you could read the story I wrote and give me some feedback. If you choose to participate in my study (which I am doing with a couple of other students), you’ll have to read the story, review it, and then fill out a short questionnaire (I will message you the link after you review my story). You will be guaranteed anonymity and you will be able to opt out at any time.

         It is said that a combustible object is one that is able to burn easily. A combustible flame, then, is a flame that delves into itself and ends itself in the most painful way -- self-destruction. The flame can burn up its life source and fizzle out, or it can eat its way slowly to death, on the way seemingly experiencing colors and fireworks and candles and whatever else that brings the flame supposed joy.

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         It was the summer of 1955 in the middle of Utah. The barren landscape was dull at times, and the people who lived there became dull with it. A construction worker labored and toiled in the 105 degree sun -- he was tired. The worker would continue working; after all, he would be off the hook in an hour and would get his paycheck at the end of the week. He knew that there were many out there who lived a better life than he did -- but living was living and making a living was the most important, so he worked and did what he was told. His wife, however, had many complaints -- “Why can’t we afford lobster” and “Why do you only earn this much” -- and he would only say that this was what he was taught and that she didn’t work.
         Once in a while, he would allow himself a small luxury -- a lottery ticket. He would buy one once every couple of months, and hope for the jackpot, but of course, he had never won. And this was one of those afternoons, where he felt he needed a little something to give him some hope, some entertainment, too.
         As the sun started to set, the worker walked home and saddled his horse -- he decided he would climb out of the valley (which was really a large hole caused by an old nuclear test bomb) and go to town to buy himself a lottery ticket. The vendor was announcing that this week there would be a national lottery. It was ten dollars a ticket, and the grand prize was one-hundred seventeen million and still going. The worker bought one, then headed back to his home in the valley.
         The next day was a typical day -- he headed to the construction site, where he could hear the atomic testing in the distance. He was put to work, and to distract himself, he imagined what he would do if he won with the ticket he had bought the day before. He had heard that the rich had financial advisors, and he thought yes, he would get himself one indeed if he won. He would be able to afford lobster and wine and various cheeses for he and his wife. The worker believed he would have a good chance at the jackpot this time -- after all, he had worked his hardest and believed that God would see that, and thank he and his fellow Mormon workers for their work. Of course, it was not good to hope for such good fortune, as greed could make you end up in the outer darkness in the afterlife if you were not careful.

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         Another week had passed, and it was the day the worker had been anticipating, the day when the winning lottery tickets would be announced. He and his wife spent a prayer after he returned from work, then he left for town. He climbed out of the valley, and then rode his horse until he reached the town, which was less humid and more pleasant than the valley in which he lived. The man took out his ticket and checked the number: one-five-oh-seven-two-seven-seven-two. The small 16 inch television the vendor owned broadcasted a man announcing the numbers. For the third place prize, the man said, ticket number one-seven-six-nine-four-oh-five-six-one had won two million dollars. The worker put his hands closer together and hoped. The man then said that the second place prize was won by ticket number two-seven-seven-four-six-nine-two-one. They would receive twelve million dollars. How lucky they were, thought the worker. Then the man on the screen was announcing again that the jackpot, one-hundred and twenty-eight million, had been won by ticket number one-five-oh-seven-two-seven-seven-two. The worker stood for a moment, not registering that the number was his. Then it clicked, and he stood paralyzed for a moment -- the ticket was his! How lucky he was, to have won this grand prize. The worker would go home and read the bible and the Book of Mormon and thank the Lord for this good fortune, for it was not solely a reward for his hard work, but a gift from the Lord. The man on the screen then said that the winners were to go to the nearest bank, present their tickets, and ask for the check. The winners would then receive the check a week later.
         The worker whipped his horse to make it run faster -- it wouldn’t matter if he hurt this one, would it? He could just buy another. In fact he thought, weren’t city people using things called automobiles now? He would be able to get one, and buy himself out of the uncomfortable valley that he and his wife were stuck in. In fact, he didn’t even have to sell his home. He could just burn it down! What a wonderful thought it was, burning the house to down to start a new life in the city. He reached home by nightfall, and told his wife; for the next couple of hours they were weeping and laughing and thanking the Lord and deciding what they would do with the money. It was millions and millions, and whatever they did, there wasn’t any way they could spend all that money, was there?

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         A month later, the worker and his wife had burned down their old home and moved to the city. They had burned up all their clothes and furniture and memories with the house -- they could just buy more, couldn’t they? And both the worker and his wife had discovered things in the city that were quite enjoyable -- the wife found she liked to shop for clothes that costed thousands and show them off to people, and the worker found that he liked to head down to a pub or a bar and drink until he had trouble walking back home.
         The worker found he was very happy; although he often came home hungover and it was quite uncomfortable, he would soon be better and could head to the bar again and drink his fill of the most expensive wines. And his wife never complained; after all, she had plenty of so-called friends to go shopping with and would not have to stay to endure his temper in the mornings.
         The weather in the city was still humid, and the air was considerably worse than in the valley, as the worker could smell smoke and alcohol wherever he went (then again, he only ever went to the bar) but the worker was content, for how could he afford air conditioning before he won the lottery and came to the city? And how could he drink the top-quality wines a man at the bar had introduced him to? He felt that he was on fire, on a road of happiness that would never end. This fuse would burn on and on and on, and his life would always be exciting. The fuse was a candle, a bright candle. No! It was a firecracker with endless designs for him to see.

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         Two years passed, and the worker and his wife were quite happy with their lives. They had liver problems from drinking, but they could just pay for the best doctors in the country, so the man reasoned that he need not worry. And recently, the man at the bar had acquainted him with the casino. The man said that it was thrilling to play with money and would make him feel happy. The man also said that if he tried it, he’d know how exhilarating it was and immediately want more. The worker, having not been warned against this, went, and found that indeed, the man was right. So he headed home to convince his wife to go gambling. His wife agreed that it was indeed very addicting, just as addicting as their expensive wines, and they decided that since they had plenty of money, they could do it for the rest of their lives.
         After a couple of weeks of gambling, they had lost a lot of money, but they figured that since they had millions and millions, they could afford whatever price, for the pleasure of gambling and drinking, and to show off the money they had.

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         And this went on; the worker would buy expensive wines for ever-increasing prices every month, and spend days in the casino at a time, returning to the hotel room only to sleep for a couple of hours. He had long since forgotten about his religion and his old job -- those memories had burned down with the house. After a while, he did not even notice his bank account draining and his money slipping away (the wine soon cost hundreds of thousands, then millions, and he could lose millions a day gambling), as he was so caught up in the pleasure of it.

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         One day, he realized how tired he was. The people around him just wanted his money, really. The men in the bar and the casino were less civil than his old fellow workers at the construction site. The air was humid and suffocating, and the city summer was not as pleasant as it used to be. Lightning struck often, and dark clouds hung over the sky. But he was somewhat content with his wine and his gambling; it enthralled and intoxicated him and nothing else mattered much. So he lived on.

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         It came to a day when his bank account was empty. He tried to draw out the million that he needed, but the banker told him there was none left. He needed this money. He felt an unquenchable thirst claw at his throat. He repeated to himself, he needed this money. He decided he would sell his mansion and his car. He received five million, half of which he immediately spent on his expensive wines. But no matter for this money, he needed it, after all.
         It wasn’t long before he and his wife finished that, too, what with the uncontrollable drinking and gambling. He had heard that some men had sold their wives. He would never do that. Or would he? He craved that wine and that thrill he felt when millions of dollars rested on the flipping of one card, no, he needed it, more than he needed his wife. He sold his wife. Tied her up, sold her to the man at the bar along with all her clothes for more of his wine.

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         Then he was done. He didn’t have anything to sell. Not his clothes, not his wife’s expensive furs, not anything. He became more sober, but still, he felt the severe discomfort claw at him. And he stumbled around blindly, thinking that maybe he’d find some wine to help himself to. But he didn’t. What he found was a rehabilitation clinic he could not pay for (or could he? Did he have millions? He couldn’t remember.) They fixed him, or so he thought.

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         Life was more painful after. He realized what he had done. He missed his wife. He missed his old fellow workers. He missed his religion. He could finally see how uncomfortable the city was. It was crowded. It was the source of the test bombs that plagued the valley. The expensive wine was fake. There was the lightning. Everyone wanted money, money, money. And he had fallen into that cycle, too. He realized that city’s people, the mood, the impatient lifestyle had burned him up -- he had fallen, like a combustible flame.