I walk down the road slowly, towards Mrs. D’Angelo’s house. He’s in front of me, chuckling darkly and crooking his fingers in the eternal sign of beckoning. My bruised and scabbed face aches in reminder of what he will do to me if I don’t do this.
Come on, Liam. We don’t have all day. He closes his eyes and smirks. Then again, if you don’t do it today, there’s always tomorrow, and the next day, because I’ll always be here…
I shake my head. I know he’s right – as much as I deny it, he is a part of me. He is me.
I pick up the welding torch and turn it on. Mrs. D’Angelo’s house is ancient, wood and plaster and crumbling brick. The torch heats up, white-hot, and touching it to the bottom of the porch, dry in this summer weather, a spark catches like a flint to tinder.
Newborn flames begin to dance.
Well? Don’t let it putter out, Liam! Picking up the gas can, I spray the fire.
The heat makes my tears evaporate before they even leave the corners of my eyes. Far away, the sirens begin to sound.