Night of Dancing Fires

I hope it was pure agony. I hope you went insane in those moments. I hope your lips whispered my name again and again, aching that I would come save you.

You were always delusional. But the first night we met, three years ago, I fell in love with your smile underneath those lights. God, you were beautiful. Despite the cigarette between your fingers, despite the smell of alcohol radiating off your body, you were beautiful. You had a glowing smile, the one that brought light to even the darkest forests in the world. And it became easy to believe you were simply a kind heart who was forced to adjust to unfortunate situations.

But I soon found out that there was no kindness in your soul. Your smile was a calculated move, a feat you practiced every night in front of your dusty mirror. And after that, you would go out with your friends. Rob a few small stores, create trouble with a few other gangs. Death was welcomed, encouraged even. During the nights I stayed at your house, you never even slept next to me. I always closed my eyes when you asked me if I was awake. I always heard your car groan as it carried you and the others to do another illegal activity.

Sometimes, if trouble came with you back to your house, I would hear the gunshots right outside these thin walls.

When I tried to leave you, your hands forced me into staying. They traveled inside my body without permission. They left deep bruises that will never fade. The nearby gunshots and bruises became a daily occurance. I could only wish you were sober enough that night to hear me screaming at you to stop.

Enough came to be enough. And then one day, you were especially drunk. Staggering around, you were swinging your fists at my head and yelling at me how much you loved me. I coaxed you to sleep, placing every angry nerve in my body to sleep as well. I had to smile to get you to do what I wanted. You were right about a smile’s deception.

I grabbed the gasoline you stored in your messy garage. I don’t think a single finger shook as I poured it all over the floor and walls. I let it seep into your disgusting body. But for some reason, something felt off. Like it wasn’t enough. To burn just you.

And then I realized. I could do more, go bigger. Make a disaster.

At midnight, I left your house and bought much more gas. Driving home, I let it trickle out of the container, dripping onto the roads that mark the city. I didn’t think about what would happen the next day. I just needed the city to burn. To die.

I reached your house at around one in the morning. I didn’t go inside. My stuff was still in there - my phone, my clothes - but I didn’t care. I flicked the lighter on, and watched the little flame burn for a while. It danced around, aching to grow larger, to consume everything it touched. And soon it would. I dropped to my knees, right outside your front door.

The fire began to play.

Growing faster than I expected, it licked all the walls of your house. I heard your screams this time. They never seemed to fade, even after the flames engulfed the entire house. The fire spread, continuing its dance throughout the streets. As I drove away, people cried out in desperation. And yet, no one called the hospitals. Death was welcomed, after all.

I arrived home. I took a shower. I slept. I did not think of what happened that night. But I did let myself revel in the fact that you and your whole damn city burned alive.

Yesterday I lit a fire for the hearth. I couldn’t even recall your name.