It was a pleasure to burn. A pair of hickory Allen Edmonds stood calm amidst the flames, the heat bringing out the shine of the polish they were coated rather generously in. The embers surrounding Celio popped and snapped in the air. The flames made their way up the backside of his custom-tailored Burberry tux, tugging the fibres apart and singing the cotton. It was a pity. There was an old painting on the wall in front of him, oil on stretched canvas; it must have held some sort of sentiment to the family given the way it was preserved with evident layers of varnish and hung high out of reach of the greedy touch of Children's hands.
He turned his head to the woman writhing on the bed in demonic seizure. Her hands twisted and her elbows snapped against her sides, unholy gasps and wails choking up her airway.
"I'll take good care of this for you," Celio whispered, taking the painting by the rusty frame and tucking it under his arm. He bent his gaunt frame over the decaying mattress and pressed his lips to the woman's forehead. Reclaiming his poise, the man stepped around the bed and took his leave through the collapsing window into the dark of the night, leaving the flames and the dying woman behind him.
