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I want them to crave the pain with me.
It's fucking different.
Masochism doesn't do it for me, though a dash of old-fashioned sadism is nice with the right girl, when the flames make them yelp and cry. Still, Iwantthem to want the burn.
Fear and excitement buzz in the air this morning, and it makes me feel like I'm walking on a thousand tiny bubbles, tasting a hint of the high with eachpop.
Scully Montege, one of the fuckers who follows me around like a lost puppy dog, whistles at me and brings her pinched thumb and index finger to her lips, silently asking if I want to smoke or, at least, set some shit on fire. I shake my head. I accepted her offer once before and regretted it immediately. She didn't like it when I took the lighter to her skin. She sobbed and wailed like she was dying and ruined our perfect moment together.
The problem is that Scully is not a real pyromaniac, much less a pyrophiliac.
Most of the people who claim to be aren't, not around here at least, not anymore.
There's Xander and Bex who need the flame, but the rest of them—the true believers—they've died, graduated, or been sent upstate to the adult mental illness facilities. Everyone else here only claims the title for shits, giggles, and to get close to me. The guys think I'll make them look cool, and the girls think that they'll worm their way into my pants, which is true. I do make the guys look more badass, and I've fucked nearly all of the girls at the Asylum at one point or another.
My reputation precedes me.
Hell, I've screwed pretty much everyone in the student population at this point. Well, the females, at least. More power to you if guys are your preferred hole, but it ain't my kind of party. I tried it once and didn't like it very much. Seventy-thirty odds would not try again.
Sex with women isn't fun lately either. It's stopped quieting the noise. They still scream my name and come all over my cock, but all I want to do is to tell them to shut the fuck up or I'll find another hole. Sometimes, I'll roll the lighter across my knuckles while they ride me, flipping it back and forth back. I'll even roll the wheel, press the button, and start the flame. When they see it, nine times out of ten, the girls will go wild, bucking and moaning. Only then do I finally get some peace from all the noise in between my ears and come.
But it's so fucking loud lately. I'm only eighteen years old, yet there's so much noise, I don't know how to escape it anymore.
I can't set the school on fire, not unless I want to go to jail this time, but the truth is I like owning these people more than that. I like being worshiped and told I'm worth something. God knows my father wouldn't agree. I can still hear the fucker from a thousand miles away. Even when he's asleep and not giving a single fuck about me, he's all I think about.
You stupid, ignorant fuck! What kind of son are you?
I can still feel the slap across my cheek like it's imprinted there, scarred into my skin.
You dumb sonovabitch!followed by a swift smack to the back of the head, hard enough to rattle my brain.
I hear his words until they are all I can hear, until they jumble together and it's just waves upon waves of loud incessant noise.
Today, though, I plan to silence the world, so I can enjoy myself and have a good day. I'll do something that I know will give me just enough of a high to drown out the noise and keep the nasty dark urges at bay. The urges wriggle beneath my skin, snaking underneath my flesh and whispering in my ear, telling me to light the flame and watch the world burn.
No fire for me, not this morning at least, though it's about the only thing anymore that holds back the rising tide of noise, suffocating the worries that wonder what it would be like to be worthy of my father's love.
Not that I want his love anymore.
Not that I want anyone's love.
I remember it vaguely, that desperate pit in the center of me from when I was a child that ached for his admiration and attention, but that died long ago. At this point, I just want vengeance. I want to burn everything he has, everything he hopes for, every dream for every lifetime, and let the wind carry the ashes away.
But I can't, not yet, so right now I'll settle on making today a good fucking day.
I walk down the hall, my books tucked loosely under one arm. I don't know why I bother going to class anymore. I could cut, and none of the professors would care. Hell, it's easier for them when they don't have to deal with people like me.
Up ahead, Michael Mares is talking to Xavier Daveraux about who the fuck knows what. They are standing in front of a classroom across from each other and looking way too serious for a boring Tuesday morning.
Target fucking acquired.
I smirk to myself as I continue forward toward them and down the hall. It's time to have a little fun and make the noise disappear for just a minute.
Michael and Xavier are still balls deep in whatever conversation they're having when I shoulder-check Michael, sending him stumbling into Xavier, who's known for his short stature and even shorter fuse.
"What the fuck?!" Xavier yells before he takes the stack of books he's holding and clocks Michael in the face with it. Blood showers in the air like it's my own personal thunderstorm, and I laugh as it hits the tops of my hands and the side of my face, freckling them in a bright, beautiful red.
Punches are thrown, and a guard starts yelling.
