Your name is Dave and you just set your carpet on fire.
Your day began as usual; good mood just waiting to be spoiled, snuggled up warm beneath your blankets with Cal tucked up under your arm at around six. Typical day in December in Texas. Nine days before your birthday. The turn of events leading to it being 9:37 AM and you've got yourself pushed up against the far wall as the flame spreads happened rather rapidly and is in no way your fault.
At 6:15, you make your way down the stairs with Cal slung over your shoulder. December is a relatively safe month in the Strider household. The smell of mint is revoltingly strong (there's a jar of peppermints, probably why) and admittedly a little distracting, so happily you take one and pop it into your mouth. This is your contribution to the smell issue.
At 7:00, you're rooting through the bathroom for matches to light your candles. There are three or four near your computer, you like the soft light. The matches are in the medicine cabinet and you locate them quickly.
At 7:04 you're shoving the matches in your pocket and at 7:06 you're slipping back into your room. There isn't much to do but light your candles and stream ancient Christmas specials from YouTube, so you do that ... And holy lo and behold it's 8.
This is where things take a turn for the worst.
8:17 finds you sinking into boredom, happy to find that a message has been sitting in your inbox since 6:45. Very quickly, that happiness disappears. The message is addressed from your best friend but the typing style is wrong from the first line. He doesn't use capitals or type daunting walls of text, so you're heavily confused until you get out of what must be an introduction and see that the message is from his father, Franklin (and that he had no other way to contact you).
Two thirds of this sounds like exposition into a horror novel, and you feel like it has to be a joke when you read the first line of the third paragraph;
'Johnathan passed away last night, right around 3 in the morning. The cause of death was a large tumor in his lungs.'
The message goes on to invite you to a funeral three weeks from now. You feel like that's an awful long time to wait to bury a dead guy, so you reply with skepticism.
'is this some kind of joke because john its not funny to tell people youre dead'.
The next message comes relatively fast, and at 8:30 you begin to stare at the matchbox on your desk, full of hurt and grief.
'This is no joke. I find no humor in feigning the death of my only child.'
8:36, and you're reaching for the twelve-match book a random notebook on your desk. You fashion a sort of torch out of several sheets of paper and strike a match.
You let this first one burn down and scald your fingertips, just so you don't feel absolutely nothing.
8:40. 8:41. 8:42. When you've held it for as long as you can handle, you blow it out and throw it down to add to what will become the things lost in the fire.
8:45 brings the first failed attempt at setting the floor ablaze. You swear and look around. There has to be something flammable in here.
Immediately, your thoughts go to the tequila cabinet downstairs. You're not sure how flammable tequila is, and this leads to a brief search on the Internet (and an understanding that it'll do.)
You decide the risk of getting caught is too great.
You get an idea and roll some of the matches into the paper, then light it once more. You're not sure why you've resolved to light up your carpet, but there's no going back now.
8:50. The matches in the paper catch quickly and you drop them to the carpet, grinning as it bursts into flames. It spreads, but not as quickly as you'd like. You toss old school papers in to feed the fire that has bloomed on the floor.
You move to your turntables and start to play around with buttons and dials - a The Smiths vinyl sits on one of the decks. You're not sure why. The noise normalizes the smell as your incense burner, you hope.
A glint across the room catches your eye. Son of a bitch, you left the puppet. Now the pressure is on as you dance over flame and cables to get across the room, all in an effort to save the dumb ventriloquist dummy dangerously close to the flames. As soon as you reach the bed, something sparks behind you and your way back is revoked.
All it takes is reaching over the the edge of the bed to save Cal from becoming nothing but a pile of ashes and charred porcelain. Time has caught up to itself. It is now 9:37, and you get the sudden realization that nothing ever looked so satisfying. You did it. You set it of ... and you have no way out.
Your name is Dave and holy fucking shit are you in trouble.
