Three

An apple orchard, a letter, and a fire

        I hadn't meant to read the letter. Honestly, I hadn't. I knew that the letter wasn't for me, I just knew. Whilst the letter had no address, no title, or signature, it didn't feel like it was for me. I can't really tell you why I opened it. I did it in what, I suppose, was a moment of madness. God, I wish I hadn't. I really, really, wish that i could just go back in time and stop myself from opening it in the first place.

       I guess it was less of a letter and more of a story. About... Apples. It seemed harmless. A beautiful description of a beautiful orchard that was far, far away from here. A description of the young girl that lived there; the daughter of the owner. It described in a pretty way her daily activities,how se would have snowball fights with friends in the winter, and how she would help her father pick the apples during harvest season. It even described the book she read, re-read, and read again over the course of a month whilst her father was away from home. Regardless of how beautiful the description was, the detail was off putting. I questioned throughout who had written it. The mother, perhaps? And yet, there was no mention of her. No maternal feel to the writing, either.

        And the end. The end was awful. The most vivid and horrifying part. The fire. 'Flickering fragments of flailing despair', the author wrote. Oh, but the girl. She had been given the idea in one of her books. The one she had read so many times, I suppose; getting every part memorised and rehearsed. She was, after all, the one who did it. Doused the house in some sort of oil, before creating a nice little ring to sit in. All before she lit a match and set the whole thing ablaze, herself included. That's how I know it wasn't just some made up story by someone with too much talent and time. The horrific detail was all I needed to convince me of that. In more accurate terms, I suppose it would have been a diary.

        That's why it was so horrible. So impossible, and yet so certain. Because she had written it too. The letter. The girl who set herself ablaze somehow had time to write a completely untarnished letter about her actions. After the events. The sight the smells, the emotions. Her exhilaration. Her joy. Her amazement.

        She watched it burn by her hand, and she enjoyed every last second of it.