Firebug

With every bump in the road, the supplies in my backpack rattled, and there were a lot of bumps. The road was in terrible shape since nobody came up this way anymore, except for the odd group of kids sneaking into the house on a dare. It was perfect.

I pedaled up the last of the hill and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. The old house loomed above me. The roof drooped, the windows were broken, and half the paint had peeled off. The home of all the local ghost stories, but not for long.

I set my bike down on the lawn and bounded up the steps. As I stepped inside, I called out, “Hello?”

I made my way upstairs. “Hello?”

No response. Good. Didn’t wanna accidentally kill somebody.

In a matter of minutes, I’d emptied my supplies and gotten to work. I splashed lighter fluid everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on the rotten remains of furniture. The Molotov cocktails were next. I’d made them out of old soda bottles, strips of a bed sheet, and more lighter fluid. I set one in every room in the house. Upstairs and downstairs. Then I threw sheets of fabric over the old curtain rods and doused those in lighter fluid.

When I was done, I pulled a lighter out of my pocket. I popped it open, lit it, and snapped it shut again. I walked up the stairs, still playing with the lighter. The sound of the lighter filled my ears. It was glorious, but it was nothing compared to the crackle of flames that was to come.

I lit the lighter, but this time, I didn’t snap it shut. This time, I set the Molotov cocktail in the middle of the room on fire. The bottle was flaming in an instant. Soon, it would melt, and the whole room would burst into flames. Time to get moving.

I went from room to room, lighting the Molotov cocktails. I hurried, but not too much. This was part of the fun.

As soon as the last one was burning, I slipped out the front door and down the porch steps. I picked up my bike and wheeled it to the edge of the lawn. My fingers twitched in anticipation. Then the first room exploded.

Flames licked up the side of the house, and the wood crackled as it burned. I savored the sound, the heat, as the rest of the rooms followed in rapid succession. Watching the old house burn, I smiled.

As the flames grew bigger and hotter, nobody came. I stood alone on the lawn, relishing the chaos before me, watching as the fire consumed the old house.

It didn’t burn as long as I would’ve liked, but burn it did. Right down to a pile of ash. When the last embers winked out of existence, I hopped back on my bike and coasted down the hill, riding the high of a firebug.