A Fire Is Born- short story

Just a little story, not much background I know, but still...!

The match lingered on the head of the box. I didn’t know what I was doing, I was young, naive and grief stricken. Take pity, relate, excuse me for my crime.

Is what I wish I could say.

I knew exactly what I was doing, tonight, on the anniversary of my sister’s death, I was to kill a man. Sparks danced hauntingly in the reflection of my glazed eyes, and all at once, I held a flame. Small, good-tempered, warm and bright, with all the ambition of a champion, and all the potential of a king. In a matter of minutes it would be a furious, burning, merciless killer, licking at the body of its victim, feeding off of the convulsion of a man. That man. He stands in front of the stained glass window, a silhouette of a short and stout businessman in a bowler hat and a stiff-collared coat.

‘What are you doing with that flame?’ inquisitive as an inspector should be.

‘It’s cold in here.’ I lie. But not for long I think.

The conversation ends there to my surprise, and inspector yes, but clearly a bad one. He’ll never find out I did it.

I killed my sister, and now I will kill him.

The rain lashing down on the slate rooftop couldn’t dampen the mood more, not a perfect day for a fire, but a good helping of diesel would light up the wooden panels with ease. I stare into the mystic glow of my ever growing blaze, but in my peripheral vision I keep my target closely monitored. He shuffles back and forth, obliviously content, with an almost humorous look stretched upon his toad-like face. For a moment I took pity on him, he was no more able than a baby bird from its nest, yet that sympathy was snatched away as I felt the heat rising up the match, nearly at my fingers, it’s now or never. Lead by the glow I walk solemnly for the corner of the church, if one looks close enough, you can see the panel in that area soaked with a sticky black fluid, where underneath a barrel lies, now’s my chance. I’m ready for this.

But before I can drop the match and unleash a torrent of searing fire, the inspector clears his flemmy throat and says, ‘I know what you’re doing Delilah.’

‘Sorry?’ I say, wishing I had put more effort into my drama lessons, my mouth hangs loose for a moment and I tilt my head unconvincingly like a puppy.

‘Oh yes Delilah,’ He rocks on his toes and puts his bowler hat behind his back, with a pitying glance. This man I see is not a short-sighted country bumpkin. His eyes are intelligent and humbly perceptive, his lined face gives him a complete air of wisdom. Dammit, he does know doesn’t he…? ‘You killed you’re sister in this very church last year, and we both know why…’

‘I have no clue what you’re talking about!’ I tremble, conferring I do, he continues,

‘You killed her because… she asked you to.’ He benignly finishes.

The flames lick at my fingers timidly, and I fumble at the match, but I drop it.

Into the oil can.

A fire is born.