Page 16

Sundrop: July 2022

Sometimes when I am at my most stressed and unhappy, my dreams are filled with zombies. You might think that's kind of cool but it’s not. They are long, drawn out, vivid as fuck dreams that are so intensely frightening that when I wake up screaming, and go back to sleep, I start back in the dream exactly where I left off. All night this happens.

I can remember each one I’ve ever had.

But psychopaths can’t feel fear? No, I don’t normally. I’m not scared of things the way most people are, I can’t relate. Like when women say they are scared to walk alone at night for fear of being attacked? I walk alone at night in the hope someone gives me a reason to defend myself. I find most horror movies funny.

I remember telling someone I laughed at a lot of the scenes in a TV show about a group of girls who got stranded in the mountains in the snow after a plane crash. There was supposed to be cannibalism, there wasn’t much cannibalism in it. I was a little disappointed, wasted a lot of time watching those episodes. Anyway, I was talking to someone once about the show and I had said I found a lot of the interactions funny. They looked at me with a somewhat worried expression. I knew then I had fucked up, but I didn’t quite understand what I had done. It was funny. They explained it wasn’t; it was quite a serious drama. I thought it was a comedy. I laughed a lot watching it. It made me laugh.

Talking about cannibalism, see, my mind wanders when I’m not mentally doing well. I can’t stay on track. Cannibalism though, in that show they make a point of not eating the other girls despite them dying or growing sick, being injured. Now, I might not want to kill someone specifically to eat them. I’m not one for human flesh. Well, maybe, now I feel like I’m slipping into madness so who knows, maybe I should indulge myself. However, what I will say is that if my life was at risk. I would kill someone and eat them to survive. End of story. I can’t understand people who have a moral or religious issue with this. If my life is in danger, if I need to survive then my need to survive comes first above all. I will, no matter what, live.

Now, that is an oxymoron because I’ve never particularly wanted to be alive. I am not grateful for life. My survival instinct is that strong though, it always kicks in no matter the danger and I always make it through, even when statistically I should have died by now, either by my own stupid, reckless choices or from other people’s attempts to harm me.

I’ve always wondered if my skin was genuinely thicker than average. I don’t bruise easily when others do. I don’t break bones as easily. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I once took a knife and stabbed myself repeatedly in the thigh, with more force than necessary and it never pierced the skin. It’s hard not to believe I am Godlike and invincible when I have tried to kill myself and lived. I have been almost killed by others and lived. Everything I should have died from; I’ve always lived through. It’s annoying truthfully.

I am God and God doesn’t exist.

Maybe that’s why I only bow to the Goddess of Death.

Zombies don’t exist but my subconscious mind believes they do, and these dreams have always plagued me when I am restless.

I also hallucinate shadows and insects when I am particularly upset. These are the physical manifestations of my degrading mind, eroding away inside of me and falling apart.

The shadows that creep into my vision, always from the sides along with insects that creep and crawl into view, only slightly. It’s meant to unnerve me.

This is insanity.

I am standing on the edge of this cliff, and it looks so good down below.

I wonder how much my body can survive this time because I am fed up with getting up each day. I am fed up with pretending to be someone I’m not. I am angry.

The blood doesn’t do enough for me this time. I’m aggravated and shaking, my body folding in on itself and I just want the noise in my head to stop.

I kick the corpse on the ground on my left and look at the two dead bodies. Two, this fucker had not been alone as I had expected him to be. Sloppy, careless, I had followed him after seeing him at the local shop. The one close to my house, so close I can see my back garden gate and the poor job I had attempted to paint it a nice sunny blue last summer, from his kitchen window. This is too close, but I don’t care today. There was music and banging and no one cared, this neighbourhood is run down and falling apart. Like my insides, like my outsides matching the scenery.

Everything swims in my vision and I feel like collapsing. I want to lay down in the blood and I want to drink it all in.

Soak myself.

I am soaked already.

Fuck, why am I so horny and unhappy and bored and…

I know exactly why of course.

That fucking asshole piece of shit, cowardly fucking waste of space, cunt of a what? Boyfriend? He wasn’t my boyfriend; he wasn’t my anything.

Friend?

Lover?

We never fucked.

This is his fault.

I am angry, I am angry at Cole, and I want to rip him apart but instead I will rip these two apart.

I want to do it with my own two hands, dig my nails into their flesh and rip and tear and squeeze the flesh until it turns to mush in my hands, my hands my…

Dear diary, the boy I like doesn’t like me so now I murdered two men who I don’t even know if they fit my silly little code or if they were just men and being men made me angry enough to kill them both.

They all deserve to die.

I hate him so much.

Why did I give him the opportunity to hurt me like that?

I fall to my knees on the floor and lay down like I had wanted. I don’t care about the blood and any potential risk of disease. I don’t care about getting caught. I lay there and cried. I feel pathetic, a man making me cry.

Me?

Someone I loved who I thought loved me too and he said no to me.

No one says no to me.

He rejected me.

ME!

I lay still for a few moments and the absurdity of the day does not pass, I feel life and light and smoke swirl around me. The sky is getting darker outside, it’s evening time now.

Sighing as I lie in their blood, the liquid starting to congeal I decide to throw caution to the wind and lean into myself. I am a crazy psycho bitch so I may as well be the best crazy psycho bitch that ever lived. If I am to be caught, then I may as well have crimes that truly shock people.

I want to be myself; I might as well be. I tried to be a little more likeable, more desirable to others and no one wants me, no one cares about me, no one loves me so what's the point in trying to be good?

I look at the dead bodies and know what I am going to do.

I had gone upstairs and found some condoms in the bedside table in this one’s bedroom. I’ve rarely ever used them, but I suppose if ever there was a correct time to do so, this would be it. The house is not in a great state of repair but it's clean enough. The living room, not so much anymore. I am covered in blood; I am dripping their mess all over the place. Thankfully, despite my flirting with madness, I had put my gloves on before I had entered this home with these two men whose names I do not know, nor care to learn. I’ll find out either when they arrest me and tell me, or it’ll be in the paper in the next few days.

Either way, I take my gloved hands and go to the front and back doors, making sure that they are shut, locked and tightly secured. I don’t really want an audience for this. I want to be left alone for as long as possible. This won’t be quick.

I don’t want it to be.

Next, I go to the windows along the bottom floor of the two-bedroom house and close the blinds or curtains respectfully, making sure the windows are secure, and no one can peek inside and catch me. Not yet and not for as long as I can manage.

I want to put on such a horrific performance, it will be worthy of the books written about me one day.

I imagine Cole’s face as he listens to the podcast episode of his favourite Murder fangirls discuss me in length the walls are painted a pale blue. It’s calm and serene.

When I was upstairs, I checked each room carefully to make sure there was no one hiding. There are no animals in the house. The doors and windows are now locked and secure. We are alone.

Going back to the living room, seeing the two bodies sprawled out on the floor, the blood soaking the carpet and seeping into the floorboards below. I love the sight; it does soothe me.

I remember seeing an interview with that cannibal necrophiliac serial killer I was obsessed with as a child and how he had wanted to create someone who would love him unconditionally and stay with him forever, never leave him. I had scoffed at that as a child but truthly, that was all I had ever wanted too. Someone to love me, someone to love, someone that would never no matter what I did, leave me.

Everyone always left me.

I was always alone.

Now, I wasn’t.

I could see it now.

Going to the TV, I switched it on and waited a moment for it to load. Something flashed up, and there was noise, something talking. I grabbed the remote and turned the volume down a little, something more acceptable and went onto YouTube. Searching for some rain and thunder ambience, something soothing. I like storms, they relax me. I love watching them.

Maybe it’s too much of a cliche analogy but the darkness, the noise, the flash of lightning, the steady tapping of rain against the window; it soothes my soul, it makes me feel more peaceful.

I look back at the bodies and pull out the several condoms I had grabbed from his drawer upstairs. The cabinet was dark pine or maybe oak, the drawer was filled with condoms and cigarettes. What a combination.

Maybe this is why I detest men so much, they are disgusting.

I laugh; I hear the hollow noise that escapes me as I laugh at myself.

I am disgusting.

I am the worst, most disgusting human being alive in the world today.

I shake my head and think, ‘fuck it.’

Both men are unfortunately lying face down and weigh a significant amount more than me. Well, isn’t this what I go to the gym for? I think as I grab hold of the first one's shoulders and try to turn him over. I need him on his back.

With some pulling and some rather unattractive grunting from me, I manage to get him onto his back. He splatters down into the blood, and I laugh at his caved in face. That's good, I don’t want to have to look at him, see what he looked like. I’m already forgetting.

That’s not normal, my memory is damn near photographic but for some reason when my sanity is degrading as badly as this, I start to forget things, I get little spaces in my otherwise spotless, clean and tidy memory. It used to worry me, I liked being in control of everything but this, I find myself not caring. I don’t care who or what he is.

It’s not real, none of this is real.

It’s just me and my fucked up little world and life and existence.

After I’m happy with the fact he’s lying flat on his back, I giggle again at the bits and pieces of what’s falling off his face, the blood and gore that have come apart with the force of impact and smile. It’s my first genuine smile. This makes me happy.

I look up and down his body, seeing him in jeans with a leather belt, traditional style belt buckle. I think it’s silver, it’s hard to tell now. I wish I could do something with the belt. Maybe later. I unbuckle the best I can and undo the button and zip of his jeans, getting up now and pulling the trousers down his legs. He’s still got his trainers on, something that used to be blue? I think. It’s hard to tell with all the blood, he had been laying down in it until a few moments ago.

They looked like nice trainers though.

I leave his trousers around his ankles and remove the belt from the loop. I should have done that sooner but who cares. Maybe I can wrap it around my own throat and strangle myself as I come?

Something deep inside recoils at that, something telling me no. I won’t be dying here today.

Something still works then.

In my brain after all.

I sigh and decide not to think about it too much.

His underwear is a plain style boxer short, the slightly loose fit kind. Disgust rolls around in the pit of my stomach a little at the fact I don’t know what this man’s hygiene is like and he may be gross. Touching this part of him isn’t my first choice. I wish people washed themselves properly.

Grimacing and gritting my teeth, I pull down the shorts, the blood seeping into the material from the drenched carpet makes the sight more enjoyable.

I like seeing him exposed like this, I enjoy the sight of the blood staining his pale, cold skin.

My gloves are a thick leather, something that won’t leave behind any trace fibres but also makes sure I don’t leave any fingerprints.

Some of my DNA will be left behind at this crime scene though. Luckily, I’m not on my period but fuck, I’m still going to get my pussy juices all over him. And the other guy too.

They talk about semen being discovered in or on a murder victim all the time on the news and in true crime shows and books. I try not to think about the true crime podcast that SHITHEAD liked that we used to listen to together and discuss. I can't think about him right now. Semen is how they catch someone; semen is how they know someone was raped before or after death. They can tell so much about the temperature and stages of bodily decay and yet here I am genuinely wracking my brain to see if I can think of any female serial killers, or at least someone with a vagina performing acts of necrophilia on their murder victim? There must be one. Why can’t I think of any? I won’t be the first, but I am wondering will they be able to tell? Will they inspect the body closely enough to see the evidence of my arousal covering his body?

The condom will hopefully stop me from catching anything. My god, can a dead man’s cock accidentally come? Will he have any trace semen on his cock? Can you get pregnant from a dead man? One thing I will not be doing is googling that on my laptop or mobile phone even if I am slipping off the edge of insanity. It feels like sliding around on glass. That’s how I imagine myself now. The blood is glass, my sanity is swirling, slipping and sliding.

Pregnancy from a dead man? Is it a possibility? Fuck I hope not.

I haven’t been on birth control in years.

A condom is essential, but it won’t stop the juices from my already wet cunt sliding down onto his body, mixing with his light hair. It’s not as light as Cole’s pubic hair who I absolutely won’t be imagining while I fuck this body.

The blood.

Lust is always just underneath the surface at any given time. The kick back from any emotion, any situation will drive me into a psychotic rage of lust and desire. Blood. The sight of it, the smell of it. The violence of how it was taken from both men. I look at both bodies and cast my eyes back to this man. Maybe with a face, he would have been attractive, we could have gone for drinks and fucked the normal way.

Maybe he would have been good in bed. Maybe he would have been like all the others, rough and fast but terrible at making me feel anything real.

The true impact of psychopathy? Playing the victim by blaming a dead man for my intimacy issues.

Laughter spills from me, erupts and grows louder.

I use my teeth and tear open the condom wrapper and make sure to stuff it inside my inside pocket of my leather jacket. It’s a cute crop one, completely impractical in most weathers, especially in this July heat. I like how it looks though, maybe I'll be able to get the blood off, maybe not.

Fairy washing up liquid is usually good at getting the blood out of things. This may be a lost cause though.

I take my clothes off and while still holding the condom in my teeth, I lay my clothes down in the next room. It’s a kitchen, lightly decorated again, a beige of some kind. It’s boring, it’s simple and it’s nothing like my own kitchen. I think about cooking some body parts, but I don’t want to be here all night. Maybe next time.

Planning for the next time, I’ll take that as a good sign.

Once my clothes are off, folded neatly on top of the bunker and away from any mess from the massacre in the living room. I walk back to the room, knowing my clothes are already splattered with blood and soaked from lying on the ground. It’s another insanity that I’m trying to keep them dry enough although I realise now my plan to put them back on and walk home, even that short distance back to my house from here, is flawed. It’s July, it never quite gets fully dark at this time of year. I won’t be able to hide in the shadows and not be seen. Especially not covered head to toe in so much blood.

I’ll have to borrow something from him then.

I stand over the body, condom now in my hand as I think about how to do this. His cock is in a state of semi hardness which is great because I know they don’t go fully hard but don’t go completely soft either. When I was eight, I researched necrophilia for a school project. That earned a call from the headmaster of “is everything alright at home?” and “I don’t believe this is appropriate for her to know about at this age, let alone having taken an interest in it”. I got in a lot of trouble for that, but it did teach me a lot. Like how in some countries, they believed in vampires because male corpses kept an erection after death. This showed proof of being undead in the eyes of doctors at this time. Of such a heightened sexual appetite that was common lore for vampires, even in death. I can’t remember the name for the condition, again, I don’t particularly want to be googling such things when I get home.

A necrophiliac serial killer on the loose and my search history being full of “what happens to a man’s body when it dies” and “do corpses retain erections?” or “does rigor mortis mean that a cock stays hard?” No, that simply won’t do.

I am beyond help now.

One thing I do know for absolute certainty is that this is all Cole’s fault. Shithead’s fault. Sorry. Shithead.

This is all Shithead’s fault because if he had just dated me, if he had just fucked me, if he had just given me the right amount of attention, I would not be about to fuck two male corpses.

Who else am I supposed to fuck?

I go down to my knees and take his cock in my hand, it’s cold and feels hard enough to me. It won’t get harder, or maybe it will. Who knows. I just need it to be hard enough to get inside of me. I place the condom on the tip and carefully roll down the length, taking satisfaction that, this man has a decent sized cock. It’s long and quite thick.

I take care with the condom, trying my best not to rip and tear it which is quite a success with the mood I’m in. Being gentle isn’t something I need or want right now. When I’m satisfied that it’s on properly, I spit down onto his length and using my hand I spread my spit across his shaft. I spit again, making sure to cover the top of it well.

I manoeuvre myself so that I am straddling him, and I am needy for this. My pussy is alive with action, sparks flying from my clit to my asshole. I can feel everything. I close my eyes and take in the sensations. I’m angry. I can be too quick to act, rarely taking the time to enjoy things. Taking a few deep breaths, I softly flutter my eyes open and hold his cock in one hand. I gently lower myself. Taking in each mostly hard inch as I slowly lower myself so that the base of his cock is pressed firmly against my pussy.

Rocking my hips a little, I sway forward and then back and get my body used to his, taking a few moments to familiarise myself with this strange feeling. It’s odd, the body below being silent, hard and cold. The squelch of blood around his body is overwhelming as my knees are pressed into the blood-soaked carpet. Soaked, everything is soaked. I place my palm flat onto the carpet and it’s still wet enough with blood that I bring my hand to my pussy and coat my clit with blood. His blood. The other man’s blood. It’s all mixed together and the temperature of the blood against my clit sends more shocks to my body. I’m smiling when I think of Cole.

Fucking cowardly bastard.

He deserves to die but I can’t bring myself to do that yet.

I will, just not yet.

One day.

I turn my attention back to the dead body beneath me and realise that I am happy. Not as happy as I wanted to be, but I have an opportunity to truly do the things I like. I’m not with anyone right now, I don’t need to be. If this is what I want, then this is what I will have. If everyone already calls me crazy, I might as well lean into the accusations until I’m caught. I might as well be the very best serial killer I can be and truly finally terrorise the police and everyone else. Let everyone live in fear of me.

I place my bloodied hands on his chest and rock my hips hard forward once, and back again. The rhythm is going to build up in me, the lust and the despair and anger and everything else I can feel, I do feel, and I use it to fuck myself silly on this corpse.

I lean down and press my fingers into his face, feeling the squelching flesh and pieces falling apart from where I caved it in with a baseball bat.

It wasn’t my bat for a change. The baseball bat I have and normally use is a fine one, I’ve had it for years. No, this one was his, one he had left sitting out in his hallway. I had just walked into his house right behind him. So easy to pick up and swing at them both. They never saw me coming.

I bounce on his cock, feeling and maybe it is just my insane little imagination, but I feel it grow bigger and harder inside of me. I push my hand into his face and feel it break apart. I laugh, let out a real genuine laugh at the mess I made of him. I bring my fist down on his face repeatedly, breaking it apart more and more. I watch satisfied as blood and gore and eyeballs pop from the impact of me hitting him in the face over and over as I bounce up and down.

My pussy is wet, dripping with blood and my lust. I am drenched and it feels so good. Fucking him like this, I imagine it is Cole and hope he dies. I hope I get to see his stupid dead body. I cry out as I grind down, my pussy sensitive and needy as I move faster.

I hold my hands on his chest now, I need to support myself because I’m getting erratic in my movements, spinning out of control as my desire blows through me. I touch my hand to my clit finding it still slick with blood, and I rub, fiercely, wildly as I take his cock so well, he’d be proud of me, taking his cock so well.

I can’t think about him anymore

I can’t get myself off otherwise.

I think about Cole, I try not to but it’s too much of a routine as I cry out Cole’s name. In anger, despite myself, in betrayal and obsessive desire. I hate him, I love him, and I hate him more right now. Anger makes me speed up as I take his cock wildly, fucking myself hard and fast as I hope his body breaks apart under me from the force.

I can feel the orgasm building as I press down hard, grinding my pussy against his hard, cold body as I take his cock. I wish I hadn’t used the condom; I want to feel the wrongness of this. I want to know what a dead man’s cock really feels like. I want to take it into my throat and choke myself on it.

I can feel my asshole clenching and know I’m going to have to stick something in my ass if I’m going to come and place one hand on my clit, pressing and rubbing down hard with the blood as I use my other hand to put a finger inside my ass. I stretch my asshole open; my fingers are covered in blood and bits of this guy's face but I’m past caring. I get one finger inside of my asshole and damn near pass out from the absolute perfection of it. I cry out, my cries getting louder and I bite my lip hard, blood, blood, blood everything inside of me and outside of me.

I feel it against my knees, and I feel it against my skin.

I close my eyes despite myself. I'd like to look at the mess I’ve made but I’ve brought myself up so high that I’m not sure that the ground exists anymore.

I push and stretch my asshole more and place a second finger inside. I once tried to fist myself and couldn’t quite get the angle right to get in more than three fingers. It’s a shame. Maybe I can put this guy's hand up my ass.

It’s an awkward angle and balancing act now, as I'm not worried about falling and hurting myself but rather ruining my orgasm which is threatening now to sweep me away by its devastation.

I still grind myself against his body, trying to take care to remain upright. My core muscles scream at me in agony of the stress and strain they are in to do so.

I finger my ass and can feel with my fingers, his cock inside of me, that wall separating my asshole and vagina so thin, I can feel everything.

This is exactly how it's supposed to be.

I wish I had someone inside my ass as well as my pussy. I wish I had two men here that could fuck me hard like that, squashed between them and held tightly.

Sundrop who can’t get one guy to text her back, let along fuck or date her and I’m thinking about two separate men? Now that’s truly delusional.

I finger my asshole deliciously as I rub my clit and the cock in my pussy takes me to release as it barrels through me suddenly. I cry out again, biting down hard on my lip as I rock my hips trying to take myself through the orgasm as I feel it spreading out from my core and wiping away the rest of my sanity.

I just came on a dead body.

That post-nut clarity is a bitch.

I open my eyes and take my fingers out of my ass, licking and sucking on them as I forget what was on them a moment ago.

Clarity unlike I've had for a long time comes sprinting back towards me, smacking me in the face. I wince a little, looking at the mess I’ve made of the body. It has started to collapse in on itself a little. I’ve fucked it into oblivion. His pelvic bone is cracked, probably broken, so are most of his ribs. His face… Well, that doesn’t exist anymore.

I sit there sheepishly for a moment, part of me feels pride in my efforts, the other part a little horrified by what I have become. I had lines, standards, things I didn’t want to do despite deep down knowing I kind of did want to do them. I tried to be anything but this but if this is what I am, there is nothing to be done about it.

I get up, my knees buckling from the orgasm. I smile, that was one of the best I’ve ever had. It felt so good. Maybe the reason that things don’t work out with people like Cole is because this is what I am, and I can’t be with a regular person like him. Maybe I need to be ok with who I really am and accept that he probably doesn’t want to be with me because deep down I know he will never accept what I really am. He must know there is something wrong with me. I’ve never pretended to be mentally healthy; I’ve always let little bits of madness slip so that people know I am mentally Ill. I’ve just never, at least I don’t think so, let slip the extent of it. People know, they must, that’s why they avoid me. They don’t know, they can't comprehend what I am, but they know something is wrong with me.

That’s why he doesn’t want me.

There is something wrong with me and I’d eventually fuck him up too.

Probably kill him. Then what?

Maybe it’s best this way.

It’s not what I wanted but maybe it’s for the best.

It’s selfish of me to want him when he clearly doesn’t want me.

It goes against everything I feel inside but maybe I do just need to let him go. Digging in my claws and refusing him space or freedom hasn’t been good for him. He ran from me.

I need to accept that.

Focus on myself.

Focus on my own wants and needs. Focus on my career.

I have hobbies, traveling, things I'd like to do. I should focus on what I can do and not someone who doesn’t want me.

I stare at the mess around me. This makes me happy; this makes me calm. I can’t have him and this. It would never work out.

I look at the body of the man I just fucked and say thank you to him. It’s a gift he has given me, and my sight feels like it’s restored. I no longer see anything in my vision that isn’t there. The colours are a little brighter and the shapes not as sharp. It feels like I’m more rational than I was a few minutes ago. Then I have been in a long time.

It’s awful to think that this is what I need to regain my sanity. How can I ever explain to anyone that this helps me feel better, it’s the only thing that makes sense to me?

I walk into the kitchen and see if there is bleach or anything to light a fire. I remember the cigarettes upstairs and realise he will at least have a lighter or some matches. Smokers never allow themselves to run out of these things. I might set the house on fire, specifically his body because I’m hoping that will remove any trace elements of my bodily fluids or stray public hair. I’ve decided I don’t want to be caught; I want to reevaluate my killing and start over. Do things in a new way.

Firstly, I go to his bathroom and turn the shower on. I’ll wash the blood off, clean up the bathroom with bleach and take some of his clothes. I’ll take my old clothes with me and dispose of them separately. I have a plan for that. My brain feels like it’s working again, that razor sharp intelligence that gets hidden away when I’m depressed, behind a fog of cloud and mist, is back again. I can think again, I can see again. My senses are sharp and heightened and I am grateful for the lucidity.

I am the phoenix rising from the ashes. Born again and born anew. I am different, I am greater, I am revolutionary. I will rise from the ashes of his body and his home. My house is one street behind, and any fire shouldn’t spread all the way over to my home, I don’t think so anyway.

I remember the petrol bombing of the house a few doors to the back of one of the houses I grew up in, the one the paedophile was found in. The local kids in the neighbourhood had been taken, picked up for a few hours only to be found again later the same day, in a state of distress and shock. I remember my next-door neighbour, a young blonde girl my age, appearing as if from nowhere after being missing most of a Saturday. When it was discovered, the man was one of the neighbours, his house was petrol bombed by a few of the local dads in the middle of the night. The man died.

No one mourned him, everyone said he deserved it.

I had wondered why of all the neighbour kids that had been taken, I was the only one that wasn’t despite being the similar age. I couldn’t help but wonder, even then, why no one wanted me, not even the local paedophile.

I like thinking about that fire. I enjoy watching fire of all kinds. Candles, bonfires, house fires. I remember being around five years old and being babysat by the husband of the woman next door who had been friends with my mum. They had fucked off somewhere and left me with this alcoholic who had fallen asleep drunk while he was supposed to be watching me and his own four boys. The youngest was my age and liked fire as much as I did. I convinced him to set a fire inside the living room. They had heavy curtains, the posh kind that came all the way down to the floor. We were hiding behind them, and I got him to set the curtains on fire using matches we had found. We both stood there, wrapped up in the curtains while they went up just watching the flames of what we had done.

His father stayed asleep while the flames grew. We were only saved because that was when our mothers came home, they saw the fire through the living room window and us two standing there and came running and screaming inside to save us. We both got beaten that day for that.

Then there was my father who would set fire to the house while my mother and I would be asleep upstairs. He didn’t live with us. He had his own family, his own wife and kids. He would do this sometimes and leave. I would be left in my bed and rescued by the firemen; it became a routine. My mother would forget I was in the house and saved herself. Oh, she would always remember to save her dog though.

Fire.

It’s always been there in my life, more so than I guess for other people.

Fire. That’s what I’ll do to destroy the evidence of what I’ve done here today.

Fire, to burn away all that was before and start anew, fresh with a purpose.

Fire.

It brings me back to my first time.