hømetøwn

• : / twenty six / : •

I was seven years old, and sitting with a pencil between my teeth. Head throbbing. Crumpled papers scattered across the table. It was always like that when I was doing English homework.

"Hey, Mom? Can you help me?"

My mother bustled through the kitchen, Jeffrey clinging to her leg. Her face was different back then. Less tight. Less closed off. Her frown lines were only just beginning to form.

"Not now, Chloe."

Jeffrey's explosive giggles rang through the house. My mother wiggled her leg, but he clung on.

"Little goofball," she said, reaching down and prying him off. She flipped him around and cradled him against her chest. Even though Jeffrey was four years old and getting heavy for his age, my mother loved to baby him. Jeffrey's big blue eyes fixed on her, alight in blind adoration.

"Mom," I said again, raising my voice. "I'm confused about my reading homework."

"Well, think a little harder, then."

"I already tried that."

"Try harder."

She set Jeffrey on the ground and he promptly started screaming.

"I have things to do and I can't help you right now," she said, raising her voice over Jeffrey's wails. "Your grandmother's coming in on Wednesday and this place has got to be spotless. Have you cleaned your room?"

"Yeah."

She narrowed her eyes at me. I shifted.

"No," I admitted.

"Go do it."

"But my English homework --"

"Now."

Jeffrey choked on his own spit and fell into a spasm of coughs. He spluttered and hacked like an old man. Then he went back to screaming.

I left my homework on the kitchen table. As I started towards my room, I paused, looking at the counter.

"That's a pretty candle," I said.

"Uh huh," said my mother, opening the dish washer. Jeffrey pounded his fists against the floor.

A box of matches lay next to the candle. I couldn't stop looking at it. It really was a gorgeous candle. The flame trembled, emitting a soft orange light. A scent like cinnamon curled out from the melting wax. The box of matches beckoned to me. My mother never let me light the candles. I licked my lips.

My mother bent over, shuffling the dishes around. In a surge of courage, my hand shot out and snatched the matchbox. Then I crept out of the kitchen.

"CLEAN THE ROOM," my mom yelled after me.

"I will!"

Our house was different back then. When we rebuilt it later, my mother added a second floor and wider rooms. Which didn't make any sense. But I guess when you've lost everything, you have to find ways to compensate. Even if it means bigger rooms for less people. Even if it means wider spaces between the things that were left behind. The point is, our house was much smaller back then.

I slid into my room and locked the door behind me. Excitement buzzed up my spine. I glanced over my shoulder, making sure the door was locked. Sweat pasted the matchbox to my palm. A delicious sort of rebellion churned inside me. My mother always told me not to play with matches. She never let me touch them.

I should have listened to her.

My fingers quivered with terrified excitement as I took out the first match. The dark red tip seemed to glow. A sick, twisted hunger rose within me. I scratched the match against the box.