I didn't live in a house, I
didn't own a car. The little money I earned in mopping other peoples'
crap off the floor was wasted on matches and petrol. It was hard for
people like me to stay in one place for very long. I spent most of
the day in a barren park surrounded by broken wire fence. When the
night cast its sheet of darkness over me I was the only one who
remained. The lights turned off and the people hid behind the safety
of their multi locked doors. The stares of disturbance and the
agitated yells disappeared for a while and I was left with my own
thoughts. The voices in my head were louder than ever before. The
streets were empty and only the leaden sky was left to see who I
really was. I sat on a wooden swing and ran my long fingers along
the burns scars on my arm.
As
a child I used to stare into the open flames. There was something so
beautiful about fire, a dangerous temptation for the sick. The
flames had a power over me that was impossible to control. The
matchsticks made their home in the pocket of my scorched jeans and it
was havoc from then on. I had nothing but loneliness and the pleasure
that came from all the ashes in my wake to keep me company during the
long hours of the day.
I
spun a a matchstick between my fingers and smiled at the jerry can
between my feet.
“Tonight
there will be light.” I dreamed of the tall houses before me
collapsing in flames. A work of art as it would seem, and I was the
artist. To the people in this town I was just that boy who spent his
days sitting under a tree in an empty park. But I was so much more
than that. I yearned for destruction and turmoil amongst the insanity
that surrounded me. This was a new town; they would figure this out
soon enough.
I
could smell the petrol on my skin. Burning my nostrils, the
nectareous odour filling me with a warmth that normal people couldn’t
understand. I focused on a house on the street surrounded by yellowed
grass, lonesome, and forsaken.
“I
bet it'd look nicer on fire.” The voice in my head was impatient.
The
dry grass swayed softly with the night's breeze. The house glaring
down at me menacingly as I paced to its door. I curled my fingers
against its cold knob and twisted it until the door groaned open.
Before me was a large and bleak room with sickly curtains and flowery
wall paper, curled with neglect. The wooden floor boards were coated
in saw dust and the windows were shattered. I lifted the can up to my
stomach and twisted the cap off.
“Let
there be light.”
All
was silent except for the gurgling of the petrol pouring onto the
walls and floor boards. Anticipation and release rushed through my
veins like a noxious plague.
“Savour
this moment kid, take one deep breathe and light it up.” So I did
as the voice ordered and took one big breathe.
“One.”
I pulled out the redheads and picked a match. “Two.” I lit the
match. The enslaving rush it gave me never got old. “Three.”I
hovered a finger over the head as it emanated its alluring heat and
tossed it under the curtains. I watched in wonderment as it crawled
up to its drapes and spread across the floor boards.
It
was truly beautiful. I could barely tear my eyes away from the
bright, sharp flames inching closer to me every second. I spun around
and rushed outside the house, the flames licking closer too my heels.
I ran across the road and sat myself back at the little wooden swing.
Swing swing.
It
was always better to appreciate your art from afar. And it was quite
a sight. The loud crackling noises filled the neighbourhood, the
lights turned on and the doors unlocked. People soon gathered around,
keeping their distance from the bright embers as they slowly
collapsed, with such grace. I leaned my head on the tree and ran my
hands over its harsh bark. I slid the matchbox open and pulled out
the last matchstick. I looked up and smiled at the tall tree,
envisioning the sound of crinkling leaves. The excruciating screams
and gasps of the voices flooded my mind and the arduous silence of
the night was gone.
“And
there was light.”