Ignite (coмιng ѕoon)

☣ｐｒｏｌｏｇｕｅ

I feel the lighter in between my fingertips. My forefinger and thumb locate the familiar wheel with ease, almost mechanically and with terrible familiarity.

I look at the subject. A two story high Victorian household painted in a nice burgundy color, with long windows and elongated rose bushes. The roses were, comically, dead. Just like its previous owner.

Maxwell would never share specific information about any of the subject's residents, but for what I'd heard.The guy had been terrible at pursuing his taxes and his full time job as a raging alcoholic mourning over his dead wife and the cancer that took her life for granted. The poor bastard, unfortunately, had had two lonesome daughters.

I stay on the street, waiting for a passing cars or nearby peers to come along, but nothing arises as a threat. Nothing to witness what the burgundy beauty was before I would make it disappear in the swift blink of an eye.

I wonder what would've been of the old Hayden if she was assessed to a task like this. She would've been a coward, ridiculously cold feet-ed and with a week conscience. I could see her now, standing underneath the shimmering street lamps, shivering underneath the coat in her woolen red shawl with a tight expression. The feeling of the lighter in her palm, making her sick to her stomach.

She was long gone by now, deep into agonizing memories and the dark places in my mind, trapped forever. Destroyed and bare with vulnerability and other terrible stuff. Only a slight reminder for myself; a painful one.

My cellphone rings from the ripped back pocket of my jeans, and I mutter curses lightly under my breath.

"What?" I whisper, cold air tasting my lips.

"Is it done yet?" I hear the trepidation on his voice and I try not to laugh, mainly for his ability to doubt me, but also because I'm trying to be completely invisible at the moment.

"It won't be done if someone catches a young girl with a Marimba ringtone and a small lighter ready to do dirty business for her boss at three a.m. in the morning." I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Are you sure no one is home?"

"No one has ever been home before when you've done this, aye?" She hears the loud music of the club in the distance from the other side of the line, a conjunction of noise and drunk shouts echoing with the beat. "Just do the work. And hurry up, you know how he feels about slow pokes."

"Stop prolongating the progress with pointless phone calls, I've got this." I start walking towards the house, my eyes set on the dead plants. "Tell Maxwell I'll be there in a few."

I kill the call. My feet dragging across the front lawn and to the front porch. I look around one last time, my heart racing steadily just like every single time, seeming to adjust as the job seems easier and easier by the night.

I feel for the whiskey flask inside my leather backpack, the cool container newly filled with gasoline kept in the club. Unlocking the cap, I breathe deeply, and try to feel some sort of regret for the countless time this night. Sincerely aware of how wrong this really was and allowing to go through with it without a twitch.

I thought of the two fatherless young-ins, living with a familiar relative, and the money the house could bring them. I manage to grasp the old Hayden, trying to wrangle her back into a standing form, something less than her defeated and battered self, but then she shuts out from me and reminds me of the way life taught me to destroy, and I'm left with no other visible choice.

My mechanical self is back, and I barely notice as I pour the stank liquid across the vibrant green welcoming mat. Grasping for the lighter, I crouch down and a picture of my father appears in my line of vision, his eyes dark with inflicting malice making the feeling of my thumb against the wheel and the weight of my conscious becoms a minimal boulder when I let go and ignite the flames.

The fire spreads quickly, that's what it's best at. It's convenient and swift, doing the job quickly. That's what Maxwell adored about it, a fast employee with no strings attached. The most trustworthy one indeed.

It illuminates the front door as it continues to race in every single direction covering the wood from top to bottom, coming quickly towards the stairs and my standing position.

I hurry from the building, panting against the cold air that brushes rhythmically against my cheeks. I Manage to duck behind a minivan on the side of the street, right on the edge, away from any inquisitive sight whatsoever and a front row for the show my life had been turned into.

The flame spreads towards the top of the house, the big windows making the job wonderfully easier as the sky fills with light. My nose fills with the familiar ashy smell, and I fight the urge to flee as I admire the distress I've made. The roof is on fire now and the house has lost its burgundy loveliness. After so many beckoning I've made to the powerful element, I could've never figure out the colors that made up of the flames. A light yellow contrasted by dashes of read and orange. Terribly deadly and beautiful looking. Almost the color of a golden sunset, welcoming the awaited day.

I get up as soon as I see windows being drawn from woken neighbors and from my hiding position it will be just easy enough to walk away unnoticed. Glancing one last time at the sunset house, I walk without pain or remorse, without fear of orphaned girls and burgundy houses in lovely neighborhoods. I slip away without the pang that most of these house will be gone by the end of the year and lots of people will be left without a home. Substituted for a new attraction site dirty businessmen payed blood money to acquire.

None of the less, I loved watching it burn. Watching the flames grow higher, consuming everything in it's vicinity. Engulfing. Surrounding. Destroying.

I was the cause of such anarchy, the master acquiring it's power, diminishing till the very last existence of it all. I love how it obeys and finishes the job, leaving nothing but the painful reminder of what it was and a silent trail of ashes.

I love the fire. I love how it allows me to destroy without second-guessing. Just like everyone else has destroyed me.

I turn to leave. The regret diminishes like always after the remains of the task burn away into memories. I walk away without remorse towards orphaned little girls and drunken fathers that live in old burgundy houses. And I leave with the reminder that any sense of pang I have left will be abolished by the time Maxwell gets rid of the rest of the neighboring houses.

Destroying people's homes, leaving them to whisk away in ashes and the reminder that their comfort has been snatched away in the most cruel way. And I was going to let him. Because I was broken and guttered. And because I knew nothing more than to prove to myself that maybe indeed, I couldn't tame the flames growing along my heart anymore before it burst into flames. How there would be nothing I could do but watch how I kept turn a goddamn monster. Turned by hatred and torment ignited by the people who I loved the most.