64 Hours

41 h0urs

~the forty-first hour~

"Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?" says Peeta. "It costs everything you are." -Peeta, Mockingjay.

I was holding a box of matches in one hand and a gun in my other, with a packet of oil in my pocket.

My heart was like an enraged animal in my chest, pounding in my ears. But it wasn't loud enough to drown the voices in my head.

Don't do it don't do it don't do it.

Everyone will hate you.

You will hate yourself.

Why are you doing this?

I barricaded myself out of the door, ignoring my sister's cries. I swept to the elevators and entered, my thumb pressed against the Ground floor.

Dontdoitdontdoitdontdoit.

I bit my lip so hard that I tasted blood. I felt like everyone near the security was staring, like they knew the fault in what I was about to do. I stuffed my gun and matches up my leather sleeves when I walked by, slowing down with every step.

I walked out of the sliding doors that led out of the building. I scanned my right and left. There was a shopping center to my right, and a small neighbourhood to my left. I didn't know my 'neighbours.'

I was hardly aware of myself already proceeding to the neighbourhood. I pulled up the hood of my jacket over my head and kept my eyes on the pavement.

Dontdoitdontdoitdontdoit.

BellaAriaBellaAriaBellaAria.

There was a reception that blocked the main entrance into the complex, then a high wooden fence that barely reached to my chin. I stiffened. I obviously couldn't barge into the reception then come running out with a house bursting with flames behind me.

After examining the fence and judging the cons of what could happen, I decided to jump it. I trekked down the narrow path where the fence continued so I was hidden by the outskirts of my building.

When there was no one roaming around, I took a breath and hurled my body to the fence. I felt the top sear against my pants, and I veered to the ground. A stabbing pain shot through where the top of the fence skimmed my legs, but not enough time to feel it before I came crashing head-first into the patio of the house in front.

I extended my arms in weak defense, the impact jolting every bone in my body. I lay there for a few seconds, wounded, then forced myself to get to my feet. I was okay.

Dontdoitdontdoitdontdoit.

I faced the house in front of me. It was rich with greenery and had white marble walls, with a deep red rooftop. There were about five windows in my view, and a small backdoor. Taking a mild guess, I estimated about four people lived in this rich house that was aligned with deep purple roses and fresh orchids.

Where do I start the fire?

Inside.

I gripped my gun tightly in my hands for no absolute reason. Fear, maybe. Apart from that, I was the threat.

There were probably kids in there. Maybe there were elders, maybe adults with great plans. Or maybe there was a whole family in there cherishing their pure lives that had no problems and no stupid texts and no phone calls every damn minute.

I silently walked up to the back door, my breaths too loud for my thoughts, which were a muddled mess right now. I then remembered Bella in the dark, screaming inwardly, uselessly suffocating for air with no hope of getting out alive.

She's ten for God's sake.

I pushed the door. Locked, of course. That just makes things a lot harder. Unless...

My eyes averted to the nearest window. Bingo. It was slightly open, just enough so I could crawl in. As sly as a cat, I shakily stepped adjacent to the window. The slight breeze coming from the air conditioning inside was strong enough to gently tickle my face from where I was.

Someone was home. I had to do this quickly.

I peered through the gap of the window. Clear. From what it looked like, I was facing the kitchen, a wide space with a slippery tiled floor.

I slipped into the kitchen, feeling like I was a trespasser in a violated area. I gazed around in awe at the shiny materials, giant stove, flawless cupboards and metallic kettles.

I snapped into focus and attempted to get the oil from my pocket. My hands were shaking so badly that it took a while for my fingers to curl around the packet. Finally, I opened it and a stream of oil was dripping onto the recently washed floor.

It glided around my shoes and pooled onto the tiles. My hands were incredibly oily and thick, so the matchbox was uneasily slithering and slipping through my liquidy fingers.

"Hello?" I heard a stranger's voice.

My lungs were screaming at me to hurry up. I revealed the match box and struggled to get a splint from the tiny packaging. When I did at last, the splints all came splattering onto the floor. There wasn't time to pick them all up.

I crouched down as footsteps came closer. My heartbeat was too loud for me to fathom what was going on. I only had one and only one goal trapped in my mind: light the splint.

I scraped the wood several times against the black dotted area of the box, but was unsuccesful. On the sixth rub, a tiny gleam suddenly illuminated the tip of the splint. Finally.

The fire flickering on the matchstick, I was just about ready to toss it onto the floor and run until a pregnant woman walked in holding an auburn apron. As soon as she saw me, her jaw fell to her knees.

I froze. Time stilled.

A pregnant woman was standing here. In this moment, clutching her swollon stomach with one hand and a world's best cook apron held against her chest. Her eyes had something I couldn't explain in them. Something that made the matchstick waver and fall from my hand into the pool of oil.

All my senses combined was enough to propel my rooted legs, and I was soon flying out of the window with a heavy heart, everything spinning. As soon as I hit the grass I felt bile rise up in my throat. I closed my eyes to make it all go away. To make all this agony-

Everything erupted behind me. My body was nearly scorched with bright orange fire. I spun around just in time to catch the sight of the whole entire house falling apart. Flames burst out of the windows, shards of glass spitting out from the gaps, and the base of the house was ignited with fire. The roof joined in, combust flames licking at the pale velvety sky, drinking up to the horrors of my actions.

I buried my face in the grass and wept.

Twenty minutes passed and I was still staring at the ash-covered house.

Monster. That is what I was. Baby-killing, cold-blooded, heartless murderer undescribed as a human being.

My eyes were welled with tears so that the dark molding edges of the house were blurry. The fire had died down before the fire agency arrived, which was two minutes ago.

I should've ran. I should've dove into the bushes or done something, but the knowledge of me committing a murder was too much of a burden for me to walk with, let alone hide with.

Firefighters found me there, sweating and drowning in my tears. They treated me well, way more than I deserved. They helped me out of my black leather jacket, forced me to drink a large bottle of ice-cold bottle and checked me for burns.

They thought I was part of the household.

The police followed shortly. Cars were parked behind the fence, the colors of red, blue and white all that I could see apart from the stars that decided to join my eyes. I don't know how long I stayed there, sitting at the back of the fire fighting truck. Minutes. Days, maybe. Decades?

Just as black fingers were covering my vision, a stout police officer was standing opposite of me in no time flat. When did he get there? I blinked vigorously, trying to fight away the darkness threatening to conceal my eyes.

"Adam Browning, you are under arrest."