Purgation

The adrenaline of a choice. What should go? How quickly? It is as if my blood is the very accelerant that will inflame this blaze into an inferno. I am a diviner, a member of a forgotten, holy order, who is graced with a special insight into the possibilities of this world. But since it is still so far from this vision, I must rectify the situation and be an instrument of change. I play such a sweet, melodious tune, like a pianist whose every keystroke is more profound than the last. I, however, never leave my fingerprints behind on my masterpieces; that is quite unprofessional. I prefer for people to only construe that I am present because of my work.

I never want to be thought of as a mere person, but rather as a force and perhaps even an ideology. I will settle for a cancer, but that still makes me feel like a nuisance; I want to be an agent. An agent of, an agent for, and an agent by… change, hire, trade. My mission is simple, yet more complex than the system that opposes it. My mission is also precisely that, mine. I choose the job and the only person I can trust to see it through is myself. Although sometimes I feel that even I don’t have my own best interests in mind. I consider other options, but none turn out to be reliable.

Who decides what it means for something to be right or wrong? And why is it considered undesirable to rise above subjective, categorically incorrect biases that have somehow become societal norms? I can list hundreds of other things that are truly objectionable about this flawed system, but I am not drawn to such things today. Today, rather, is a fulfillment of a long-awaited dream which has lately become so pervasive that it now dominates my waking hours. A single bacterial thought has grown into a colony of relentless demands. Soon, however, such thoughts become too numerous to count and I gratefully give them an abode to dwell in. Typically, hosts are unresponsive or perhaps uninterested. I, however, am highly motivated and also somewhat reckless in my pursuit for euphoria.

Putting together the puzzle of my own person is an unbelievable waste of precious time. All the pieces are the same shape, yet none of them belong to a shared deliberate design. I am an enigma, but simultaneously simple. I am the whole whose parts are more valuable. My outside, my inside, my inside out. A vast array of complexity that yet is reducible to a single fascination. More than a fascination, yet I hate the word obsession. That gives the impression of possession. I, however, never claim to possess; in fact, I don’t want to. My aim is to set free, to expand. I prefer words such as “passionate”, “symbiotic”, “transcendent”. I have overcome the traditional and close-minded perceptions of what “professionals” call an unhealthy interest. The only level of professionalism that I see is a professional annoyance. A licensed idiot to whom everyone pays attention without thought or question; preferring to concede their logic merely because the word “Doctor” proceeds a name. I believe in their “science” as much as I believe in the existence of leprechauns, zombies, and virtuous people.

I am what I am, and I am what I think, and I think that I am… fine... right... and misunderstood. No matter, I don’t care if they understand. I know they can’t. They play on a field with clearly defined boundaries that they never attempt to cross. They fly in limited airspace and refuse to accept that there is anything worthy of their attention outside of this zone. Those who are curious enough to discover the world outside of the box are quickly assigned a label and thus dragged back into the box. Giving me a title somehow assuages them, and all of a sudden, they now think they know me and can predict my actions. Categories are the cages into which the world locks itself without coercion or persuasion. It loves its cell. No surprises, no changes, no anomalies.

I cannot be held in a cage. My own body is a prison from which I will one day escape. For now, though, it is a vessel. One that I use to purge this world of its cages one by one. Tonight, it is time that I do so again. A glorious morning will dawn, the sun shining on the smoldering remains of an atrocious representation of an institution that treats its members more as livestock than people. It corrals its followers into a single philosophy and then shuns them when they try to think for themselves. It is a cataclysmic entity that loses ever more of its relevance with each passing day. I accept the task before me. I will usher in the new era of thinking, where no thought is wrong. It is an era realized, forged, and sustained by one all-consuming force… FIRE!

I allow the acrid smell of gasoline to waft into my nostrils. I inhale and breathe in the burning, sweet fumes that are the gaseous triggers to a host of sensational memories. The gas is the lock, and my lighter is the key. I will unlock the dungeon and release the monster; the monster whose hunger is never sated and whose aggression is never abated. I look around the floor. The shattered, colored glass from the window through which I had just entered is strewn on the marble tile. It honestly looks better than before. Now at least the pieces no longer have to follow the organized rule that was oppressively thrust upon them. They are free to be what they want. Chaos is their new ruler, and they happily accept his tyranny.

I continue to scan the surroundings. The benches, I believe they are called pews, will obviously catch easily. The support beams appear to be made of oak. While I will enjoy watching with a degree of pleasure perhaps never previously obtained, I also do wish there was more challenge involved in this glorious endeavor. But I suppose it is rather fitting. It’s almost as if they are asking me to purge the landscape of this monstrosity. They provide the fuel; I provide the fire. All my other conquests have led to this final crowning achievement, and I will make it a spectacle.

I grab the first can of gas and begin at the front. I pour out a generous libation, the likes of which would please even Hades. The brown liquid cascades down the sides of the table and flows to the nearby steps, making small waterfalls on the stairs as it forges a path of its own. I return with another can and empty its contents on the floor, taking slow steps backward to ensure that I do not miss a single spot. All must burn. All must experience the purgative flames of the New Era.

As I make my way to the back I glance left and right at all the obsolete decor of a forgotten age. Statues, paintings, candles, and countless other obscenities which all add to the monolith of obstinate belief which fills this place day in and day out. I hold my gaze on one particular statue. My eyes meet hers and they seem to see right through me. I turn away quickly as a shudder passes through my body. Those eyes feel more alive than not. As if the woman is relaying her wordless disappointment with a simple stare. I shake my head to clear it and resume my work.

At last, I drain the last of the gasoline. Just a few more touches before my masterpiece is unveiled to the world. I reach into my tattered coat and pull out several packages of cheap, unfiltered cigarettes. I strew them about, like a flower girl dropping rose petals as she makes her way up the aisle in front of the bride. This will be the last wedding ceremony to take place here. “Till death do us part,” will come very quickly for this couple. I finish scattering my bouquet, but not before I place one cigarette in my mouth. Now I proceed to my final step, my royal and final touch.

I swing the backpack from off my shoulder and reach inside. I draw out my beauty, my treasure, my companion. I open the bottle and sniff the sweet perfumic scent deep into my nostrils. I had used this type numerous times before, but this bottle is unique. It had been hers. It was her favorite. I had taken it seven years ago and had never used it. I was waiting for the perfect opportunity, the ideal performance, my opus maximus! Tonight, I use it, for tonight is when I become something else. Nothing of who or what I am will remain. My past will also go up in flames along with this ugly symbol of an even uglier behemoth.

I raise the bottle high and sprinkle it over an invisible congregation. I hold the bottle upside down for a long time, allowing every possible drop to escape its glass confinement and be part of the approaching spectacle. I loosen my grip and let the bottle slip from my fingers. The echo of shattering glass bounces about the room as the pieces themselves do. I turn completely around and begin my exit. Each footfall is slow and purposeful. I want these statues to hear me one last time.

I pull my lighter out of my pocket and flick it on. I hold it up to my mouth and light the protruding cigarette. I inhale and exhale once. The smoke rises to the rafters, a tease, a foretaste of the billows that are to come. I reach the doors and shove them open. They creak on their hinges, a foul grating sound. I turn back around and face inside. I remove the cigarette from my mouth. I flick my wrist. It flips through the air and lands in the center aisle… WHOOSH! Flames rise up like an unsuspecting tidal wave. I step back, but do not take my eyes off the ever-growing blaze.

I continue to watch as sirens begin to sound in the distance. One window shatters in the heat, then another. Orange, yellow, white flames lick every inch like a greedy coyote lapping up the blood of its victim. This is true beauty, not those hideous excuses for art which are now engulfed in the flames. This is what it means to offer a sacrifice, a holocaust. I gave my first fruits; I have nothing left. That’s more than they are ever willing to really offer. I smile as the scene develops before me. People are beginning to gather around, shouting, screaming, and crying. I laugh. At last, I feel my connection. The fire that is within me has finally joined with the fire outside.

The sirens arrive. Firemen rush in, but I know it’s too late. I had already calculated the response time versus the rate of growth due to my accelerants. There would be no contest, my fire will win. Sweat forms on my brow and the temperature continues to rise. I praise the heat and its source. Fire is so simple, yet it dominates the most complex. They will try to beat it, but they will lose.

More sirens, I ignore them. I hear people yelling. Yelling at me? Who cares? Nothing can draw my attention away from my work. Someone tackles me. They wrest the lighter out of my hand. They begin to shout at me. I hear nothing but the sound of crackling flames, I feel nothing but the searing heat, and I see nothing but the illuminating and hypnotizing dance of orange and yellow. Handcuffs are tightened on my wrists. I don’t resist or struggle. I want to be taken. For this is how people will see me for me. No longer a silhouette hiding in the shadows, but a stark figure in the bright light of my own making. They will finally see who I am, what I have, how I think, and why I do all that I do. After all, they are all one and the same.