The Fire Within

6 YEARS. I survey our campsite, taking stock of all that we have brought. Tent, kayak, sleeping bags, a variety of packaged foods, and most importantly, matches to start the campfire. I have waited for years for this trip. Dad always said I was too young, but now that I am six he can’t say that anymore. My brother was six when he went on his first trip, so now I have finally earned the right. My mom was hesitant to let me come of course. She said I am far too young to go kayaking in “that dangerous river”, which is really no more than a big creek. I, however, have very little interest in water. In fact, I hate it. Water makes you cold, wet, and gives you hypothermia. What I want is something quite different.

I sit on a log bouncing my right leg up and down and glace back and forth between my dad and older brother as they unpack the remainder of our supplies from the car. I ask when we can make a fire and cook hot dogs. My dad tells me as soon as the tent is up. It takes another ten minutes or so. I try to help, but my brother keeps on telling me I’m doing everything wrong so I quit and leave to gather twigs and branches for our campfire. When I come back we are ready to cook our food.

I stand next to my dad as he arranges the sticks in a teepee structure and expertly places rolled up pieces of newspaper in key locations that will ensure the swift and successful beginnings of a fire. Soon these twigs and newspaper articles will be consumed by the endless hunger of orange and yellow. Fire, with its insatiable appetite for anything and everything it can bite. A devouring, unpredictable monster that reduces all its victims to the same indistinguishable heap of ash. Newspapers, forests, great buildings, all become equal through this one deadly force of light and heat. It’s terrifying and I love it.

Dad strikes a match. I am mesmerized by the tiny flame. It is so delicate. I want to grab it, cradle it, protect it like a small child. I know, however, that it will soon grow up, all it needs is some food. The match touches a newspaper and immediately flames multiply and rise up. What a beautiful thing. You can never see it double in size, like a stack of comic books that is two and then four, but you know that it is doubling over and over again. The twigs catch and the sounds of crackling wood soon follow. Are those tiny screams or is it the laughter of the wood now that it has found meaning and purpose in its life?

Dad tells me to go and find more wood. I jump up and rush to the woods. I almost trip over a couple of roots, but I maintain my footing. I must hurry, the fire cannot go out! I grab every stick in sight. It cannot go out, he needs food, he needs me! My boots carry me back to the fireside. The flames are still lingering, but they need sustenance. I drop my load at my father’s feet and head back for more, not even waiting for him to say anything to me. This time I grab bigger branches. The fire is growing up, he... uh, it... needs big boy food. I drag my prizes back to our site. Dad smiles at me and tells me I’m a good fire tender. I smile back. He tells me to sit down so I can cook a hot dog.

My brother hands me a skewer with a fresh hot dog impaled at the end. He tells me to hold it close to the fire, but not too close. I extend my arms and let the orange flames lick the bottom of my dog. It starts to sizzle. A sizzle that harmonizes with the cracking of the fire and the stirring of the embers by my dad. I love the sound, but more than that I love how the fire is transforming my dog. I brought it food so it could thrive and now it's making my food so I can eat. A perfect symbiotic relationship. I lean in closer.

The flames are performing a dance for me. Left, right, right, left. Holding steady, jumping with ease, settling back down. I want to join in the dance. The fire needs a dance partner. Pick me! My brother yells at me and I am confused. He pulls my hand and the skewer away from the bonfire. My hot dog is completely black as if the hog had put on a full-body wetsuit and was prepared to go scuba diving. He scolds me for not listening. I say I’m sorry. He calls me an idiot. I start to cry. I only wanted to dance. Dad tells my brother to be quiet and to make a hot dog for me. He looks at me and says it’s okay. He still burns his hot dogs.

I wait while my brother makes my dog. I wish the fire was my brother. It never calls me names. It is always nice. It keeps me warm and cooks my food. It doesn’t have to say anything, but I know it likes me too. My brother gives me my hot dog. It tastes very good. As I bite into the meat I thank the fire for the food. Then I thank my dad, he bought it. Why don’t we cook all of our food over a campfire, it would be so much tastier!

The sun is almost gone behind the horizon and it is getting dark. The firelight is more prominent than before and the necessity of it continues to grow. The fire is everything, without it we wouldn’t be able to do anything. The orange-yellow light casts spook shadows on the side of our tent. A macabre dance of mysterious figures who shrink and grow every second. The light also does weird things to dad’s and brother’s faces, as if highlighting some hidden dark tendency that is only manifested in the late hours of the night.

Sitting by the campfire in the dark I feel like the only person that exists on the planet. All that is is contained in the seven-foot diameter circle that I sit in with the fire. We are the only light, the only heat, the only energy, the only life. I could stare into the flames for an eternity’s eternity and still, I would not be satisfied. I am hypnotized by the fluid motion of the fire and the gentle crackling sound it makes. A perfect combination of mesmerizing sight and sound. I want to remain in this moment forever. Lost in the contemplation of each glowing ember; a study that can never be complete.

An object moves in the corner of my eye. I glance over, only moving my eyes, not wanting to take them off of the flames. The object floats closer and passes by, I catch a glimpse in the light. It is a moth, a big one! It must also be attracted to the fire too. I watch it circle the bonfire again and again. I wish I could fly like that, feel the heat of the flames under my wings giving me an updraft. The moth flies by my head again. This time, though, as it passes over the fire, a flame jumps up and catches the bug in its orange claws.

My eyes open wide. The fire is alive! The moth spirals down in a flaming heap like a WWII fighter plane that has been shot down by anti-aircraft guns. The insect is lost in the roaring flames. I am playing the scene over in my head. One second the moth was flying, the next second it was utterly consumed by the fire. What power! This campfire is alive and it has character. I had seen it stretch out its arm to catch that moth. Would it reach out its arms to grab me? It can have my shoes, I don’t like them anyway. They are ugly. My mom picked them out even when I said I wanted the other pair. But if the fire wanted to have my shoes then she would have to get me the other pair! I extend my foot towards the fire, offering my boot as food for the hungry, orange beast. I hold my foot up for a while, but I guess fires don’t like the taste of boots because it doesn't grab mine.

The fire needs something to snack on though, more than just wood. That must get boring. Well, it likes moths, I think. I stand up and go to the tent. I unzip it and grab my flashlight from my backpack. I walk away from the fire a few steps and turn the flashlight one. I point it up into the sky, the beam eventually enveloped by the prevailing blackness of the night sky. Bugs like lights I know. I see them flying around our front porch lamp all the time. Maybe my flashlight will bring a moth. I wait. My patience is rewarded, soon a big moth is circling the light of my flashlight. It is even bigger than the last one! How do I catch it? I ask myself. Then I have an idea. I take my ball cap off my head and when the moth flies close, I swing down at it as hard as I can. The insect disappears from sight. I search the ground with my light. I don’t see anything. No! I lost it! Then, I catch a flutter in the shadow of my flashlight. It’s the moth! I bend down and grab it by its wing. I pinch hard enough that it can’t escape but not so hard that I tear the wing. I smile big, I can’t wait to watch the fire eat!

13 YEARS. I jump off the bus and land on the sidewalk running. I want to get as far away from anything associated with school as I can. I hate it. I wish the stupid building and all those stupid people would just evaporate into thin air. Better yet, if they went up in a cloud of smoke. I come to my house and try the door. It’s locked. Typical. Mom never is home when I get back. She always has some excuse. I needed to get groceries, I had a hair appointment, I was at a yoga class. It was always something. I don’t care, I don’t feel like talking to her about school anyway. It is the same every day. Bullies, jerks, bad teachers. And after getting suspended for putting chemicals from the lab into the girls’ bathroom, school was an even sorer topic.

I move the garden gnome from its resting place in the flower bed and retrieve the spare key. I turn it in the lock and let myself in. School is a prison in which the best and worst of young society are forced to coexist and then pretend that they like it. The education is an insult, the order veritable chaos, and the bureaucracy thicker than a river of molasses. If the goal is to make my classmates and I functioning and contributing members of society, the system is utterly failing. If, however, the goal is to transform us into selfish, greedy, little demons, it is wildly successful. The strong prey on the weak and then the weak are punished for underperformance. I am plenty smart, but a fill-in-the-bubble test is not going to show that.

Whatever. Enough with those losers and the pathetic facade they call the education system. One day the reality of their fakery will catch up to them as they are digging their own graves and their world will collapse around them like the regime of a “benevolent” ruler who turns out to be no more than a cruel and absolute dictator. They will be buried alive in their lies but even as they suffocate they will plead that their system works if only the feeble-minded bend to their wills and give them control instead.

Until that day comes, I can at least imagine such destruction. I race up the steps to my room. I am glad no one is home today. I burst into my room and dump my backpack in the middle of the floor. I drop to my hands and knees and crawl under my bed. I lower myself further and slither on my stomach until I can finally reach the shoebox tucked away in the far corner. I slide back out from under the bed and open the lid of my treasure chest. I smile as I lay eyes on the contents: twenty high-quality roman candles. My best friend gave them to me secretly for my last birthday when I turned 13. My parents would never have approved, they are boring that way. I grab three candles from the stash and then return the box to its hiding place.

I bound down the steps and exit into my backyard by way of the kitchen. I snag a lighter on my way out the door. A blast of wind greets me as I step outside. I walk to the center of my yard and look around. Luckily none of the neighbors are out. I have never used a roman candle before but my friend told me all you have to do is light it and then point. I set the extra two candles on the ground and hold the first at arm’s length. I put the lighter up to the fuse. Such a small flame. Who would imagine that something so tiny and unsuspecting could reap such destruction? I love the power in the little flame. So much potential energy just waiting to be released and take vengeance on the world. It reminds me of me.

I raise the solitary flame to the fuse. At first, nothing happens. Then, a stream of smoke begins to leak out of the candle. All of a sudden, WHOOSH! A bright circular light erupts from the end of the stick. A fantastic orb of color that leaves a fading green stain in my vision due to its incandescence. It is followed by another then another. A series of reds, greens, yellows, and whites stream out of the end of the candle. I am instantly in love with the spectacle. Fire. In such an array of colors accompanied by such a satisfying sound. The wind catches some of the fireworks scattering the lights in an arc like a rainbow in the sky. Oh, if only this moment would last forever. Me, with the power and beauty of the amazing entity that is fire in my hand. I direct its course. I am in control. I can choose where and how this power is used. If only I had that over my school. I would love to watch it fall to ruin, engulfed by the green, red, yellow, and white flames that follow my bidding.

The candle dies in my hand as an idea comes to life. Even if I can’t bring about the glorious demise of that miserable place I could at least imagine doing so. I lace my fingers around the second roman candle. Somehow this one feels more potent as if a caged animal is waiting inside to be released so it can reap chaos and vengeance on its victims. Whatever this candle targets will not escape its attack. I see my school in front of me. Standing about is everyone whom I hate. My English teacher, my principal, the girl who sits next to me in math, the bully who always throws gravel in my face during recess. They carry such stupid, oblivious expressions, unaware of the power I now hold in my hand. They will wish they never crossed me.

I walk forward with a slight smile creeping up on my face. My steps are intentional, methodical. I don’t adjust my gaze left or right, but I see heads turning toward me as I march past. I reach the school entrance and push the doors open with a commanding shove. It is time. I light the candle in my hand. The familiar scent of smoke reaches my nose and I take a deep breath, letting the sulfurous fumes permeate my sinuses. I fire a blast into the principal’s office. I charge ahead and launch a ball of red light into my homeroom. A sound from behind me causes me to turn. It’s the bully. I level my weapon and let him absorb a yellow fireball with his face. Now we’re even. The doors to the gym are wide open and I run pell-mell through them. I hate gym.

My gym teacher is sitting in the corner, his chunky limbs hanging over the bench he is on. A Diet Coke in his hand and a half-eaten cheeseburger in the other. He is punishing a handful of my classmates with an endless number of sit-ups and push-ups. Today is the last day this hypocritical, poor excuse for a gym instructor would force us to do anything. A surprise that his obesity hasn’t already done him in, but no matter. I send a white firework straight into his squishy, round face and watch with satisfaction as he vanishes in smoke. My classmates jump to their feet clapping and cheering. They begin to chant my name and the phrase, no more gym.

A clatter on the bleachers catches my attention. A single figure is making his way up to the press box. I instantly recognize him. It’s that moron who is repeating 8th grade for the third time because he’s failed it twice. Last week he pegged me in the head while we were playing dodgeball and I had a headache for three days. I raise my arm high and aim. WHOOSH! The flaming ball of yellow is surging towards him. A look of terror crosses his face, like a rabbit who knows that it just became a hawk’s next snack. Then the breeze catches the firework and blows it off target. It sails to the left, straight through my open room window on the second story of my house.

I drop the roman candle. My heart begins to accelerate and I can hear it thumping in my ears. My breath is short and I feel like I am about to suffocate. I am frozen where I stand. I try to move something, my feet, my arms, my mouth. Nothing responds. It is as if I have been shot with a tranquilizer and am simply a dummy version of myself staring idiotically at my bedroom window. The sight of dark smoke escaping my room pulls me out of my trance-like state. I rush inside and leap up the stairs.

My bed is on fire. I watch the flames envelope more and more of my comforter. It is incredible, this thing called fire. It discriminates against nothing. Everything is potential food. The sight is fantastically horrible and horribly fantastic. My curtain catches. Billows of smoke fill the room. Fire never comes alone, it always brings its favorite murky companion which slowly drifts about, a stark contrast to the quick, bright character of its partner. One spark. That’s all it took. The heat in the room rises, sweat is beginning to drip down my face. There is so much it can do to you. It can dehydrate you, suffocate you, burn you, transform you all together into something else. Too bad this isn’t really my school. I would be so satisfied to watch it go this way.

A thought invades my head. If my bed is on fire it is only moments away from… I tear myself away from the scene. As much as I want to stay and watch, my primordial instinct for survival will simply not let me. As I reach the bottom of the stairs I hear it. BANG! BANG! BANG! Rapid explosions. The flames have reached my collection of roman candles. There is no hope now, I dash out of the house, clouds of smoke pursuing me like the arm of a giant ghost searching for a poor soul to strangle. I get to the street and turn around. Flames are now visible in the bathroom window at the front of the house. It is like a virus that cannot be stopped. It invades every nook and cranny until it has infected every conceivable thing. No amount of antibodies could kill it now, it is uncontrollable.

I hear sirens in the distance; someone must have finally called 911. People are beginning to come out of their houses to look and shout. Many of them yell at me, I ignore them. The temperature causes several windows on the second floor to shatter. What a delicious sound. The flames stretch their hands out of the broken windows. It is as if they are waving to me. I feel the urge to wave back. I raise my hand in greeting, but it is suddenly caught in a firm grasp. It is one of my neighbors, a mean, middle-aged woman who single-handedly could keep the cosmetic industry in business. If an ogre used lipstick it would look better.

The crone is shouting things at me, but in my confusion and panic, I don’t understand. I wrestle my wrist from her grip. She lunges for me again, but I evade her strike and take off running. She continues to yell at me, but it does her no good. I am not sticking around. Fire trucks begin to arrive, I keep running. I look over my shoulder as I retreat from the scene, the top half of my house now thoroughly wrapped in deadly orange and yellow. I wish it had been my school. I hate my school. To be fair though, I also hate my house. Honestly, I am not upset that it will likely burn to the ground. I am not the least bit sorry.

20 YEARS. I slow down as her house comes into view around the bend in the road. Some might call it quaint. I never thought so. To me, it feels like stepping into a retirement home full of outdated furniture, which is so packed together one can barely find room to breathe. It is both a pyschonuerotic’s and claustrophobic’s nightmare. I hate it. I put up with it, though because of her. I park my car and stride up the sidewalk, each step a little faster than the last as my excitement builds. I ring the doorbell. I wait longer than usual. I ring again. No answer. I walk around the house to see if she is in the backyard. There is no sign of her. I peek through the window panes of her garage door. In the dim light of the overcast day, my eyes have difficulty adjusting to the even dimmer light of the garage. Soon it is clear though, her car is not inside.

I swear she told me to be here at this time. I jog back to my car and retrieve my phone from the grimy cupholder in the door. I dial her number and listen to the familiar buzzing. At the fifth ring, she answers. I sense a hesitation. She says hello. I ask her where she is. She says she got called into work last minute. I say that’s fine, but why didn’t she let me know. She did not reply immediately. I could feel the tension rising in the silence, like a demon raising its ugly head. She said she had just forgotten in the rush of things. I detect a lie. She is never too busy to tell me what’s going on. Still, I pretend to believe her. I ask when we can reschedule. Again there is a pause. I hear her take in a long breath, and it is as if she stole it from my lungs because I know what she is going to say even before she says it. Those words you always know might come, but convince yourself like a naive fool that they will never be spoken to you.

She tells me that it just doesn’t seem to be working. I ask her why. She says there are a lot of reasons. I ask her what they are. She says she can’t talk about them now. She says she is sorry and then hangs up. I want to smash my phone of the cement, the shattered piece a reflection of my heart. I had driven an hour to get here in some of the most painful traffic I had ever sat through, only to be rewarded with more pain. I start the engine and floor the accelerator. My car blasts down the street.

I return to the main road and continue to fly down the route as if the Apocolypse itself is on my tail. I am halfway home when my phone rings. I look at the caller ID, it’s her. I almost ignore it, but my emotions get the best of me. I answer with a hello that is much more enthusiastic than I intend. There is a delay. I hear muffled voices and then her laughter. The sound ruptures my stomach and I almost wreck. More muffled voices. She did not mean to call, it is an accident. Then the other voice becomes distinguishable. It is him. He has always been trying to get in the way of her and me. She always promised that I need not worry. She wasn’t at work, she was with him! I let out a scream of utter rage and agony. The sound is noticed. I hear shuffling then her say oh no. The call ends.

I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white. I want to jerk it to the left and collide with anything and everything. Then I see an opportunity and a fully formed thought comes to my mind faster than the speed of light. The opportunity is a U-turn and the thought is justice. I spin my car around and head back in the direction from which I had just fled. The traffic is even worse now but I accept it as a casualty of war. I slow down as my car joins the masses of motionless automobiles and I wait.

I resist every urge not to lay my foot on the gas and unite the fender of my car with the exposed, unsuspecting bumper of the fool in front of me. I would love to orchestrate a symphony of chaos, conducting the whole spectacle from the six feet cage of plastic and metal that theoretically keeps me safe, but in reality, can have life snuffed out of it like the flame of a candle in a maelstrom. My internal rage is already overflowing, but to waste this energy in such a useless enterprise is pointless. So I wait.

Seconds drag on with the pace of the most painstaking manifestation of bureaucracy known to man. I subconsciously glance into the back seat. The tattered blanket that disguises by “passengers” droops over the edge of the seat and dips its corner into the trash infested floor. It is one of the few articles I have left to remind me of my childhood. I do not treasure it with sappy sentiments, like a child who cannot let go of their favorite stuffed animal, but hold on to it as a symbol of the life I abhorred. Twenty years of living under the shadow of one ruthless dictatorship after another, only recently rising to set up my own personal reign of terror.

I release a brief, hollow laugh as the thought of my current exploit floods my mind. I am on special orders from the Department of My Interior, to cripple the source of my most recent pain. I smirk at the prospect. All my previous missions have been more akin to freelancing, and honestly, none of them had the actual objective in mind when they began. Today is different. I am not here on a whim, by chance, or without cause. She is the reason and the only one I need.

I have always believed that the idea of love is a fairytale written by either some pathetic sap out of touch with reality or by a psychotic genius who has deceived the world with his ruse and is now sitting back to enjoy the fun. Still, there was one brief moment, almost too short a time to even measure, when I second-guessed my belief. She was different, not like any girl I knew. Her smile was rare, but when it flashed, I felt like I had been struck by lighting. Something inside me felt like she really understood.

But now I understand. I was not being understood, I was being used. And now that my usefulness has expired, I am thrown out like rotten food into the refuse pile of my mind, prey to the vultures of my endless self-criticisms. What did I do wrong?! Nothing. It is who I am that is wrong, according to her. I am “good” but just not “good enough. Normally, I am accustomed to hearing these things from others. From her it was somehow worse. Still, I might have pushed it aside if it wasn’t for him. I heard them together. As soon as I did, I knew. Love is a lie, and she told it over and over again as she moved her chess pieces closer and closer to checkmate. I am the pawn whose presence on the board only serves as a nuisance. I cannot be so easily removed from the game, however, I still have one more play to make. It may not be a winning move, but it will at least ensure that she shares in my defeat.

It is for this reason that I now sit in gridlock on this godforsaken road in a godless city whose citizens endlessly worship their own achievements. At last, the traffic begins to move at the crawling pace of a snail. Little by little, my speed increases. A slight tremor begins in my body, originated in excitement or fear I cannot tell. If it is from fear, then it is that weak part of my heart that still clings to her despite the truth. If it from excitement, then it is me finally experiencing the thrill of acting for myself. No parents, no doctors, no more her. It is a purgative shiver that shakes off the oppressive systems that seek to control my activity. I am acting and I choosing.

My stupid life with its stupid days and stupid people comes to an end today, for I no longer live it according to anyone or anything outside of myself. I am now taking the first step to ensure that I never look back. Looking back is a weakness only befitting of those who second guess their every decision. I, however, will only look to the future and what I can make it to be. It starts by destroying the past. They say that those who don’t know history are bound to repeat it, but you can’t repeat something that doesn’t exist. I will obliterate the physical and mental reality of my past so that the only course of action I take is guided by the future I long to possess.

I turn the corner, I am now on her street. Just last week I made this very same drive. The autumn leaves of the trees falling down to their last resting place in swirling, twisting patterns. The oranges, yellows, and reds enflame the trees with their true colors. Today, however, the trees are dead and bare, much like how I feel. The firey leaves killed them. I am taking a cue from nature. If all things turn to dust in the end, what’s wrong with accelerating that process a bit?

I park the car a little way down from her house. If any of the neighbors see me they will think nothing of it. I know she is not home. Today is her day to work a double shift. She’ll need the extra money after today. This thought makes me chuckle on the inside for a moment. All the dates, all the flowers, all the presents I paid for are now going to be paid back in full, including accumulated interest, in this one simple investment.

I open the door to my backseat and slowly lift the blanket. Dozen of wild white daisies lay sleeping in the cacoon I had given them. I had picked them only this morning. They are her favorite. They are now my least favorite. Still, I got them for her and to her, they shall go. I wrap the blanket back up and sling it over my shoulder. I stroll up to her house doing my best to look calm and collected. I walk around to the back of her house. The backdoor has an animal access hatch. She doesn’t own any pets, though now I feel like I was one to her, but she never bothered to get the hatch sealed.

I snake my arm through the flap and reach up to the doorknob. I will my fingers to stretch beyond their capacity. I find the latch and with a ‘CLICK’, I am inside. Towing my wasted bouquet behind me, I drag my blanket into the living room. The familiar smells invade my nostrils and I reel at the memories of her that explode in my mind as a response. All of them once cherished have not become sour. I spit them out like the bitter realities that they are and focus on making a new memory. The last memory that anyone will have of this worthless abode.

I spread the blanket on the floor. The daisies litter the cloth trying to repair its ugliness with their beauty but failing at their task. No amount of them could ever make anything beautiful now. They are the most repugnant floral being that exists. They appear small and innocent, so did she. The truth under her artful deception is a conniving witch was casts her spell on the unsuspecting in order to achieve her ends. So be it. I am now responding with a little sorcery of my own.

I step into the bathroom. I grab handfuls of useful items: perfumes, mousse, hairspray, her hairdryer, and her nail polish remover. I return to the living room. I empty a can of hairspray on the blanket and flowers. I spray another on the couch. The mousse coats the love seat. The nail polish remover is sprinkled on the desk and curtains. I mist the air with perfumes and then dump them on the carpet. Before I pour out the last one, I hesitate. This is her favorite scent. She wore it on our first date. I unscrew the cap of the large bottle. I tilt it ever so slightly. Then for some reason, I decide to keep it. Call it a reward, a spoil of war. It will remind me of her, yes, but it will, more importantly, remind me of this justifying moment, and with great satisfaction. I place the bottle in my jacket pocket.

All that now remains is the ignition. I take the hairdryer in my hand. As a child, I had always imagined them to be some futuristic weapon of mass destruction. Today, my imaginations become reality. I plug the device in and lay it on my hairspray soaked blanket, wrapping the end several times in the cloth. I turn the hairdryer on to full blast. I walk away. Out the door, down the sidewalk, into my car, and down the road, no second thoughts, not once looking back. After all, looking back is a weakness.

27 YEARS. 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 endeavour. 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 obstante 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 of 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.