The House that Burned

The Last Page

There was a strong urge inside of me to put the book back and pretend I had never seen it. But curiosity overwhelmed me, and the thought was quickly buried. I felt the presence of the owner nearby, and I shifted out of sight so that I looked like I was still browsing.

Albert was woken to the smell of smoke and a sight that would crush his dreams. He awoke to see his gallery, to which he had dedicated years of his life, reduced to cinders. For him, it was no question as to who did it. He stormed over to the factory where Frieda worked and publicly announced his breakup. His anger was an inferno of emotion, showering down over Frieda, and it wasn't until he was frog-marched out of the building that he stopped erupting. Although he didn't, and still doesn't know it, this was the biggest mistake of his life.

I stopped reading, simply too stunned to continue. Inferno of emotion? Frog-marched out of the building? Biggest mistake of my life? It was like the book had the single intention of shaming me as the grumpy man who slammed his girlfriend. Freida had burnt down the gallery. Who else would have? I flipped through the pages of my life, skimming through the events that followed. Frieda's horrified texts of her losing her job because of me, pleading her innocence and hoping to talk. My actions spreading rumours like wildfire and stumping any opportunity of me getting another job. Having to move back in with my parents because I was unable to pay rent, and them having a fraction less of respect for me. I continued to fast-forward until I stopped in my tracks.

...After searching and searching, he had finally found the house. It was just like he was expecting, and he took no time to stride towards the woodshed situated around the left side of the building. The house, being clad with wooden panels, would burn like a candle. This was the revenge he had been craving, not only for the gallery but for his reputation, his house, and any future job. Not to mention as for having such a grudge against the gallery in the first place. This was revenge for his life. The match was struck, and before he could comprehend just how wrong his actions were, the flame was dropped onto the woodpile, where it would spread rapidly like a disease. 

I shut my eyes and skipped through the prison part that I knew would follow. I didn't need any sort of reminding. But when I opened my eyes, I realised just how far I had skipped forward. In fact, I had skipped so much, I was now staring at the last page. I felt sick to the core, but I wasn't going to pass the opportunity to see how the book would end.