(TW: Holoc@ust)

One usually commits arson out is spite. This is because it’s far easier to summon the power-fuel of fire from match-wielding fingertips than to confront uncomfortable emotions. And even if my maturity would betray me this, I’ll admit I was not angry.

I was young and naïve to the cruelties of the world. I had warmed my cold-pale hands. I had caught the fluttering ash like raindrops on my tongue, but it did not soothe the burning in my throat as rain would have. Onlookers screamed at me to stop, but I was perfectly happy; I danced and laughed, dropping to the ground to make soot-angels. The other prisoners looked on in horror. They thought I was a goner.

But here I am, all these years later. I may be a skin-wrapped bag of bones begging for nourishment, but I am still alive, still kicking. On the outside world, I imagine they would say I have years left before I earn the right to autonomy. Yet I have witnessed enough horrors to burden hundreds of childhoods. I am forced to make adult decisions just to survive the day. How laughable a situation! I suppose it is my humor and optimism that has kept my fighting spirit intact.

Still, I realized long ago that no one was coming to save me — to save us — anytime soon. I kept my head down, ate when I could, and did not complain when I could not. I did each painstaking task, perfecting the art of being average enough to dissuade attention. And each and every night, I lay in the unforgiving cell, back aching and teeth chattering.

My only warmth came from the fire. Cursed fire. I tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. It was all we smelled, all we tasted. It poisoned my lungs and saturated every cell of my body with its wrongness. They told us that the fire was for waste — nothing more than a garbage incinerator.

As the little soot-angel girl faded into the hardened shell of a laborer, I had come to realize from the well-worn, too-big shoes and disappearing friends that we were the trash.

I had heard whispering about a rebellion. Some kind of attempt to rise up and overpower the guards for our freedom. It would never work. Not so long as they kept us starved and brittle like the leaves they crunched under their heavy boots.

People were growing desperate, and I was powerless to stop it. But their attempts at freedom would only buy them a harsher death.

The day before the revolt was staged was the first stroke of luck I had in years. One of our captors dropped a nearly-empty matchbox when he went for a smoke. He hadn’t realized it was gone, so naturally, it was mine. Not that he would miss it.

The next morning, I traded another prisoner one of the three matches for extra food. I would need the sustenance, and my trade victim was clearly not smart enough to ask for part of the box to strike it, nor did they think they needed it. They were the naïve ones now. A good deal on my part to say the least.

I would not be joining the revolt with the others. It was a death wish, and I did not work this hard just to die of stupidity. They would prove a worthy distraction, and, I would do my best to help from afar. I do wish them well, though they are misguided.

I went to my workstation, counting down the seconds in my head until chaos would erupt. Then I could slip away.

Like clockwork, it happened.

They had surprise on their side, which worked at first. They head-butted, punched, and slapped their way to freedom from the guards’ immediate control, using work tools to their benefit. But as I had predicted, backup came. With more weapons. By the time the first gunshot rang out, I was gone. I could only watch the scene unfold. A few lucky ones got away. The rest… a few were killed as examples, but the others were rounded up. Their fates would be worse than death, such so that they would be pleading for the relief of its embrace.

All I had were the two matches. With shaking fingers, I struck them against the box together. The sizzle and crackle of a flame not made from blood was music to my ears. It danced like a candle on a menorah, guiding me to clarity through the darkness all around me.

I might not be able to save them, but I can give them kindness.

I waited until the wind died down and hurled the twin flame soldiers like flying arrows into the fray. I heard the screams first. They wouldn’t understand. To show them mercy, arson was the only answer.

I couldn’t help but be a little satisfied as the guards burned too. The fire I willed at them would only be a sneak peek of hell. I suppose my anger fed this part of the blaze.

“Forgive me,” I pleaded, before fleeing from the inferno. I didn’t know where I was going, just that it had to be anywhere but here.