Short Stories/Poems

Let It Fucking Burn

I'm standing outside my house, in the chilly night of October 31. Tonight was supposed to be a fun night of trick-or-treating, and food. Spending time with my mom. Instead, I was kept inside. My father refused to let me leave. He threw me inside my room, not figuratively, literally threw me. He had just gotten done beating me. He found out that I hid his cigarettes and lighters from him. He saw the knives and scissors under my mattress. He has beaten me before...but never this hard. Never this long. And never for this reason. Never for any reason. I am his punching bag, just because I can't fight back. Just because I can't call for help. He knew I was an easy way to let out anger. There was never an inch of my body that wasn't covered in bruises.  There was always long red lines on my neck and face. There was never a moment I felt safe in this house.

I have a slow reaction rate. It takes a lot of energy for me to even talk. But tonight, I did more than talk. I screamed. I ran. I hurt him. I got mad. Something clicked in my mind, and I felt my body gain power. I felt my mind clear of any emotions. I felt my hands reach for the stash under my bed. I took out a pack of black cigarettes. And a bright red lighter. I lit the death stick, and sat alone for ten minutes. Gently puffing out clouds of smoke. I took a deep purple pearlescent knife, and carved words into the wooden floor. "Let It Fucking Burn" I then carved them into my wall. Then into my dresser. Then on the door. As I took the last puff of a bland stick of nicotine, I screamed. "LET IT FUCKING BURN!" And threw the cigarette out of my door, it landed in the small puddle of alcohol I knocked over with my foot when my dad dragged me through the house. A small flame pops up, as my father stormed around the corner. I take a black flip bic lighter, and throw it at the small flame. The whole hallway catches on fire. I hear my father scream, and drop his glass of whisky, the floor beneath him goes up in flames. I calmly walk down the opposite hallway leading to the living room. I take the entire bottle of whiskey and walk outside. A new cigarette in my mouth, and a blue flip bic lighter. I sit in the grass in front of my house, and hear a loud explosion. Small debris and flames fly around me, but I stay still. I light the cigarette, and take a huge gulp of the tasteless beverage. I take out the same knife from before, and carve the same words into my arm. Looking in front of me, I see flashing lights of red and blue. People are walking out of there homes and towards me.

I fall back into the grass, and puff on the stick of nicotine. The last thing I hear before I black out from exhaustion is my own voice saying "You should of saw it coming."