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“Fire cleanses,” he murmured, the words torn from somewhere deep and primal.
“Then let’s cleanse the shit,” I urged. “Let’s watch it burn together. This is our baptism, Drake. Our rebirth from their ashes.”
Slowly, he nodded, the fury and pain warring within him morphing into a cold resolve. Anticipation coiling inside me as well, the excitement of destruction pulsating through my flesh. Together, we would scorch the earth of our sorrows and rise, phoenix-like, from the devastation we wrought.
An hour later, I doused the last corner with gasoline, the fumes clawing at my nostrils like a beast ravenous for destruction. My hands moved with a precision that betrayed their eagerness, my eyes reflecting the flickering light of the match Drake held trembling between his fingers.
“Ready?” he croaked, his voice hoarse with grief.
“Let it burn,” I whispered back, a surge of sadistic pleasure cresting within me as he struck the match. A faint hiss erupted as the tiny red head of the match burst into life and flickered as he dropped it.
The flame pirouetted from the small wooden stick to the soaked floor, a hungry orange serpent slithering through the room, consuming every morsel in its path. We watched, side by side, as the blaze took on a life of its own, crackling and roaring with ferocity, a living testament to our shared rage.
Drake’s face, illuminated by the inferno before us, was a mask of sorrow and satisfaction. He seemed to be both mourning them and exorcizing his demons in the fiery spectacle. His parents’ blood, splattered across the walls, evaporated into the heat—a grim poetry of retribution that we authored together. Drake didn’t look at his parents, but I did. I watched the flames slide up the walls and writhe around their bodies, like a lover exploring the curves and angles of a new erotic partner.
“Goodbye,” he murmured, almost too low for me to catch over the roar of the flames.
We left the safehouse as a cathedral of fire behind us, the screams of the structure’s demise a chorus to our departure. We had replenished our funds, and in the garage we found a Land Rover SUV. We’d gotten everything we’d come for except safety. This hidden place, that Drake had been so sure was a secret, had been destroyed, along with any of the life he’d once had.
The drive back into Port-au-Prince was a silent one, the only sound being the distant wail of sirens and the occasional rumble of thunder from a storm brewing on the horizon.
The car’s interior was a stark contrast to the chaos we had left behind, but even the sterile calm couldn’t cleanse the weight from the air. It pressed down on us, heavy with the reality of what we’d done—what we’d become. Every now and then, I glanced over at Drake, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
I wanted to reach out, to offer some form of solace in this abyss we’d plunged into, but words felt meaningless. Instead, I let the silence wrap around us, a cocoon that neither comforted nor judged. It was in this quiet that the enormity of our actions and where we found ourselves settled in my stomach like lead, yet the thrill of the night’s events still pulsed through my veins with an electric buzz.
The neon sign of the hotel buzzed a sordid welcome as we entered the lot, its flickering light casting eerie shadows on the cracked walls. The room we checked into was simple but not unpleasant—clean sheets, an untouched bed, and a silence that seemed too pure for the likes of us. The oppressive weight of the night’s horrors clung to my skin as I surveyed our temporary sanctuary.
“Looks nice,” Drake muttered, his voice hollow, as if he were talking about something from another world.
“Sure,” I replied, barely glancing at the amenities. The polished veneer of the room couldn’t erase the filth that felt ingrained in my soul, nor could the softness of the pillows promise any sort of reprieve from the torment that writhed in our minds.
I watched Drake closely, his movements sluggish, his eyes glassy and distant. He was a shell, the vibrant rage that had driven him to tear apart the safehouse now extinguished, leaving behind only ashes and grief.
He made his way to the bed, his feet dragging over the carpet as if the gravity in this room was stronger than anywhere else. Then, like a building condemned to demolition, he collapsed onto the mattress. His body convulsed with sobs that came from a place so deep, so raw, that it made my chest tighten in response. I hated seeing him like that. Tears streamed down his face, unrestrained, soaking into the pillowcase beneath him.
“Drake…” I started, my voice trailing off, unsure what comfort I could offer that wouldn’t sound like a cruel mockery.
“God, Dahlia... why them?” he choked out between his cries, his words muffled by the fabric.
I stood there, paralyzed by the sight of him breaking apart. My instincts screamed at me to take advantage of his vulnerability, to draw some twisted pleasure from his pain. Yet, seeing him like this—so human, so shattered—it did something to the cold, dark cavern inside me. It formed a crack through which something else seeped; empathy, perhaps, or a shadow of sorrow for the man who lay before me, drowning in loss.
“Drake, they’re gone, but we’re not. We’ll get through this bullshit. We’ll make Owen pay,” I said, my words feeling inadequate against the magnitude of his despair.
“Will we?” he gasped, lifting his head, his eyes red-rimmed and full of a silent plea for a truth I didn’t have.
I took a hesitant step towards him, my hand reaching out, then retracting, uncertain. I was no stranger to causing tears, but wiping them away? That was uncharted territory. My heart pounded in a rhythm that echoed the erratic cadence of our lives—fast, unpredictable, dangerous.
“Look at me,” I commanded softly, using the tone that had always brought others to their knees, yet now it was laced with something resembling tenderness.
He looked up, and our eyes locked—a collision of chaos and calm. I knelt beside the bed, allowing my fingers to brush his cheek, smearing the salt of his tears.
“Lie back,” I whispered.
Drake’s brows furrowed. “What?”
I reached forward, unbuckling his pants. “I said, lie back. Relax, I’m going to take care of you.”
“Dahlia, no,” Drake said, trying to push my hands away. “It’s fine. I don’t?—”
