The phone call ended

The phone call ended and I felt a hot wrath and the small stuff of my cells sped up and went off kilter and collided and all of me burst into flame from the inside out. White flame-limned, the matter I moved through upon or against ignited as spontaneously as I had. The ground branded with my footprints and dry grass lit and died and fell ashen. My back door knob puddled in my hand, the wall where all my family pictures hung and told the story of our lives from birth up to last Christmas incinerated with a grazed elbow. I screamed, a dragon, fireballed breaths eating up the walls and roof and floor as I spun, ragelit, contortioning, a conflagration cape cowl and bodysuit. The floor fell beneath the spot where I lingered, and crushed me into our basement floor and I crawled through the fiery wreckage, my head breaching just as the roof collapsed and I dove down but it pinned me in the pyre of where we'd all lived and memories of sheer joy spitfired through my cooked brain. I yelled and temperatures reached exploded star levels and all the rubble of a life built incinerated and I climbed a hill of ash to the earth's surface and the neighbors stood aside fire trucks and firefighters, shielding their eyes from the heavenly brightness but could see my form within, alive and crazed but seemingly unharmed, not on fire but of it, and I was tackled and beaten through inflammable blankets, but I soon burned through and my rescuers leapt back and the hose was turned upon me and steam clouds vapored off. The ire still needed somewhere to go, so I turned my head to the sky and a stream of hellfire went through the night and through the clouds and up through atmospheres and layers of gas and earthly barriers and pierced miles of space until my scream gave out and I crumbled to a heap and sputtered like a dying ember and cooled and sat, a new person, different than before, incapable of going back.