There’s something about a burning building that is very sensual in nature. Black smoke billowing like the Devil expelling sulphur through his nostrils. The faint crackling of burning furniture adding its sweet harmony to the requiem for the dying. Yellow-red flames, an imprisoned lover, begging to be let out, seeking an outlet for escape. Agitated flames raising its fine yellow hair in a silent scream, refusing to remain trapped in mortar. In anger, it takes out its frustration on whatever it can find inside its wretched prison; wood, metal, plastic. All must succumb to the rage of the yellow goddess.

My fair lady, beautiful in her anger is she!

There’s something about burning a building that is even more sensual in nature. That shiver of delight down my spine as I strike a match on its box. Goose bumps congregate on my arms as I reverently light the holy rag doused and purified with the communion wine that is gasoline. With practised ease, i fling my cocktail into my chosen vessel and watch for the first signs of sparks and crackling flame. Say hello to my friend; I call her Molotov. I stand near the building unafraid and watch as my fiery gospel of damnation spreads with alacrity. With deep breaths, I inhale the acrid smoke, a divine incense to my goddess. Tiny flames settle on my skin and i shudder in ecstasy. Yes, i do feel aroused by what would supposedly make you shriek and slap your skin in alarm. Don’t get this twisted, pain isn’t a fetish for me. I am blessed with congenital analgesia; an inability to feel pain. Fire, is my one true fetish, my one true love.

My first encounter with fire was also my mother’s first encounter with my ‘sickness’. As a suckling babe, I was drawn to the fireplace. I remember my mum ‘tsk-ing’ under her breath as she carried me away from my observation throne time and time again. One day, she wasn’t quick enough, busy as she was telling my older brother off for touching her Christmas brownies. I crawled as fast as my treacherously immobile legs could carry me and plunged my hand inside the fireplace.
So transfixed I was by the cool light spreading on my arm, I didn’t notice my mother’s shrill scream. The force at which I was dragged and dumped into the sink in the kitchen, startled me.
I began wailing as the water doused my precious light.
I was rushed to the hospital ofcourse and was diagnosed with my illness when I didn’t as much as whimper when my burns were treated.
This was the first of many burns to come.

When I was 10, I wondered how much fun it was going to be if I could share my love for fire with the neighbour’s cat.
I burnt poor Mr Tiddles to death.
Mother was mad and smacked me. Mrs Spencer was furious and told my mum to keep her ‘freak’ under lock and key. I was upset and excited at the same time. Mr Tiddles was a cute tabby after all but his dying shriek made me hot and flustered in a way a ten year old wouldn’t understand.
I made a pact with myself. Since I could not feel my flames, I would experience its pain through others. There my career began as the burner of rodents.

When I crossed into the threshold of my teenage years, I had my first crush. A girl called Libbie. Her hair was reddish brown like dark flames. The only thing I noticed. Ofcourse, she hated me. Many of my classmates did. I was the dark haired freak who always wore a long sleeved shirt to cover up my frame discoloured and disfigured by scars. I couldn’t participate in physical activities because I wouldn’t notice if I was dangerously hurt. I was ostracised and was fine with it.
One day, I gathered enough courage to touch the hair, my source of adoration. Softer than my mum’s silk! She was mad at me though for touching her.
She scared me and pissed me off at the same time.
I wept that night, and later slept, thoughts of burning Libbie, a comforting image.

I burnt her.

Ofcourse I was not caught. I was wily. It was dubbed a Freak accident. My mother knew though.
She simply moved my brother and I to another town, and was I glad to see the back of Wiltshire!
Years later, I would come back here to begin what would be an arson spree across the shires of Brikin.

I finished college and got a job as an assistant librarian. Respectable citizen by day, arsonist by night. Most nights, I drove out of town to the most secluded places and lit up old vacant buildings as sacrifice to the goddesses of fire.
Belisama. Chantico. Gabija. Nantosuelta. Oynyena Maria. Pele.
They in turn bestowed on me the good fortune of not getting caught.

There is something about burning a building with people in it that is most sensual in nature.
This is my first, after Libbie ofcourse. I had followed a beautiful girl with a fiery yellow hair to this building yesterday. I hid and watched her and her family, all of them with hair the colour of fire.
This surely was a sign. They were the chosen sacrifice.
I listen carefully and soon enough, I hear their screams. My chapped lips stretch into a smile and I lick them in excitement. The next house is too far away for help to arrive immediately. They keep screaming and suddenly, I burst into laughter. My voice masked by the roaring flames.

As the last dying screams fade, I wipe my tears of mirth and move away quickly.
In my haste to be gone, I trip on an abandoned log and fall. Something escapes from the building and falls on my dark cotton trousers.
Soon enough, I am a living torch.
I have been touched and torched by my goddess.
I stand tall and proud, in the dark of the night.
I face the burning building and marvel at the majestic sight of the yellow on black background.

“I, Elena Pierre, daughter of the flames, accept your wish Most Revent One.”

With a final look at my last house, I fall, into the undying arms of my goddess.

The End!