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The flame dances down the brittle stick, closer and closer until it’s nearly at my fingertips. Such a tiny thing to do so much damage.
To take a life.
With a flick of my wrist, I toss the match onto the wet doorway, and the flames burst and roar around me.
It isn’t long before the fire engulfs everything and the glass panes from the windows shatter onto the street. The house begins to groan and the wooden furniture cracks and splits as the blaze climbs higher and higher, destroying everything in its path.
Tendrils of smoke find their way out and grasp for the stars, as if there is hope for an escape from the wreckage below.
But there isn’t. Not for any of us.
Part of me knows I should leave. It’s only a matter of time before people come to investigate, but I am mesmerized by the power of a single match. When the shouts of the neighbors sound out, I finally force myself back into the shadows.
The men inside that house will never wake up in time to escape their fate.
I search myself for some small semblance of guilt but come up empty. They will be unconscious when they die, a luxury my sister didn’t have.
If Mother finds out about this, she will kill me.
Slowly. Mercilessly. Painfully.
I have never defied her before. Out of loyalty or fear, I don’t know anymore. I should be panicking.
Nevertheless, as the first shout of alarm goes up, and the flames creep threateningly on the ground near the alley, a quiet calm settles over me. I’m surrounded by smoke and fire and the lingering scent of death, but it feels as if I’ve taken my first real breath this evening.
That’s when I decide these men will only be the first to go. There are two more vials in my bag and an endless sea of deserving targets for my particular brand of justice. Or vengeance.
If there’s one thing Mother taught me, it’s that you can never really separate the two.
