I haven’t always felt this way, but ever since that night at the Burrell farm, I can’t stop thinking about it. Death. Killing. Murder.
It’s on my mind plenty during the day, and the more I stopped listening, the worse the voices became. So I caved in and started looking for victims to punish. Little by little, step by step … I became more and more vicious. When I look in the mirror now, I don’t even recognize myself anymore. That’s how much I’ve changed over the years.
Dixie Burrell … finding her at the hotel and taking her with me only brought out the monster in me.
She antagonizes me. Pushes me. Gets underneath my skin and makes my blood boil.
And it makes me wanna kill someone … literally.
I want someone to feel the pain I do, to experience the suffering, and then end it all. Snuff them out with fire.
So I’m gonna put my thoughts at ease and do just that. Calm my mind a bit, just as it always does when I pick a criminal to punish.
It’s not bad when it’s someone who deserves it. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I know it’s hypocritical, considering the crimes I’ve committed, but I’m not the only one who deserves to go out with a bang. I won’t hide in the shadows … I’ll welcome death with open arms. But as long as I live, I’ll continue using fire to my advantage and pleasure.
Which is exactly what I’m going to do with this man right here. The man sitting right in front of me on this abandoned road. The dirt clings to his neat suit, but it doesn’t hide the filth underneath.
I found him via a friend of mine who works at the police station. We have this unwritten rule that as long as I don’t leave any trace, I get the names on a certain bad-guys-who-got-away-with-shit list. Suffice to say, I locate them, hunt them down, take them somewhere remote, and do whatever I want.
The guy in front of me is one of those who used the justice system to his advantage and got away with hurting a child.
Not on my watch. I’ll play the role of judge, and I won’t be gentle.
“Please, don’t,” the man begs on his knees. His oil-soaked body is shaking vigorously. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you hurt that little boy. Didn’t you hear him beg for mercy when you whipped his ass until he died?” I say, cocking my head as I play with my Zippo. On and off. The light captures his attention like a moth to a flame. They all get burned in the end.
I bend over and flick open my Zippo.
His screams fill the air, lighting my soul on fire.
This is why I do it. Dishing out pain soothes my own.
Maybe it’s evil, and maybe it’s monstrous, but at least I only target the scum of the earth. Those who deserve to die anyway. I’m only making it painful, just like they deserve.
Fire will always have a special place in my heart, its passionate flame reminding me of my own unending and all-consuming rage.
But this … this makes it a little more tolerable. Seeing the light snuff out in his eyes is like snorting coke straight up the nose. Addictive as fuck and so fucking energizing.
And when the fire reaches the sky, I turn around and walk away, leaving his corpse to rot in the blazing sun. Just like he deserves.
Just like I deserve.
One day.
*
Dixie
When he comes back, I scramble back to the bed. It’s been just under an hour. I have no clue what he’s been up to, but it can’t be good. A strange odor follows him as he steps inside with his muddy boots. Something that smells like … soot and fire.
Did he do it again?
Burn something … or someone?
I swallow away the lump in my throat as he passes me without saying a word and goes straight into the bathroom.
“Hey,” I say, trying to capture his attention, but he ignores me and turns on the water faucet instead. “Where were you?” I ask. “Did anyone follow you?”
I hope he was careful going in and out of the parking lot. For all we know, his uncle’s men are on the watch. He said so himself.
Of course, he doesn’t answer me, so I shift the topic. “Can you at least untie me?” I ask.
“No,” he says with a slightly mocking voice.
I bite my tongue instead of swearing him up and down. If he’s not gonna kill me, fine, but he can’t keep me cooped up in here either.
I crawl off the bed and follow him into the bathroom. “What were you doing out there?”
“Like I said,” he says, drying his hands after washing them thoroughly, “it’s none of your business.”
“Why do you smell like a fuel fire?” I say, narrowing my eyes when his widen. I knew it. He did something. The question is … what? “You burned someone again, didn’t you?”
He averts his gaze and turns on the shower instead.
“Didn’t you?” I repeat, this time with a harsher tone.
“Why are you so interested?” he says.
“Because.” I shrug. I don’t even know. I just feel as though it might explain shit about him. Why he’s so fucked up to begin with. He was always obsessed with fire. Ever since we were young. I don’t remember him any other way. And it seems it’s only gotten worse over the years.
“Sometimes I like to let off steam,” he says with a smug face. “Just like you sometimes like to set off bombs in hotels.”
“That has nothing to do with this,” I reply.
Suddenly, he takes off his shirt.
Just like that.
Half-naked right in front of me, and I can’t avert my eyes. Can’t fucking look away from that godly male chest brimming with testosterone, and it’s right in front of me. I don’t remember him looking like that back when we were young. Nor do I remember him flaunting it in front of me. Ever.
It’s as if he wants to make me feel whimsical, like a hormonal teenager, ready to be swept off her feet. But that’s just it. He isn’t the type to do that. He’s the type to make you wanna run and beg for mercy. The one who creeps up on you in an alley and bangs you right there against the grimy wall.
Just the thought makes me clench my legs.
“Go back to bed,” he says.
“Or what?” I say, raising a brow, still wondering how far I can take this.