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"Build a man a fire,

and he will be warm for a day.

Set a man on fire,

and he will be warm for the rest of his life."

~Terry Pratchett


I close the door on my way out, slowly walking down the porch stairs. My head hangs lower and lower with each step I take.

It's cold out tonight. White puffs of air escape my lips with each breath I take and the grass has a thin layer of frost covering the tips, but the sky ahead of me is clear, some stars shining through into our atmosphere.

Something dark falls out of my hair as I walk. Then another, and another. Bringing my hands up to my head, I run them through my hair and find the source. I pull my fingers in close to my face and rub them together. Ashes disintegrate in my fingertips.

Once I reach the end of the driveway, I turn around and stand idle, staring at the site. This is my fault, I've done this. But I'm not sorry, I don't feel any guilt or remorse. I did this, and I haven't got a single regret.

I watch as the flames rise high above the house. The colors illuminating the whole night sky. I hear her begging, her merciful pleads, her cries and screams of horror, but I can't find it in me to give a single care. So I walk away, lighter still in my hand, and leave her. The insanity has taken over.

Poison- H.SWhere stories live. Discover now