Arson by Estevan Vega Page A

couldn’t see anything at all.
    A deep sound exploded into the night, blasting glass and roof fragments onto the yard. Arson shook with horror. Raspy screams echoed from the woman’s throat. With their heads out their windows, anxiously waiting to see the inevitable misery, neighbors oohed and ahhed. Arson noticed that the woman’s hair and face were matted with ash and soot, her clothes torn and ripped. She hung there in anguish, in sorrow so enveloping you couldn’t breathe. The way the weathered firefighter’s stare broke the news of her husband’s demise shattered Arson like glass. He was saying sorry without moving his bleeding lips. The woman fought to go back inside. Die if she had to. She sobbed. She clawed. She got down on her hands and knees and threw dirt at the man who refused her freedom, or as they saw it, suicide. There was no hope left inside. The fire had completely destroyed it.
    Arson swallowed hard and felt regret. Violent regret. He had done nothing to help them. Was he dead inside or simply dying? At seventeen years of age, what had he gained other than guilt and fear? These men, these simple firemen bound by the limits of their normal skin and bone had more bravery than he did. The fire couldn’t hurt him, but still he stayed. A solid stone.
    Arson stared at his hands, knowing he could, if he wanted, inflict this kind of violence. One thought was all it would take. In a blink, he could destroy any house on this block. And just then, conviction set in. There was no escape from this curse. Why had he come here?  Get home , his thoughts commanded,  where it’s safe .
    Smoke rose from the ashes, a gray cloud hovering above what was left. Lightning illuminated the sky. Thunder groaned and crashed. And then Arson could feel rain. It was like the tears of God were falling down upon the world and all that was lost.
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    Arson blamed himself. He wasn’t responsible for creating the fire, but he was responsible for doing nothing. For running away.  He pictured the fire eating away at the man’s face, the way it must have bubbled and transformed into something ugly and unlovable.
    His mother’s face suddenly invaded his thoughts, crafted from only photographs he’d uncovered in Grandma’s drawer, found a few months ago while she slept. “Couldn’t save them…wouldn’t save them,” he sobbed, his mind swimming. He pulled the photograph out of his wallet, the one he’d kept with him. Grandma never knew he had taken it, would probably beat him raw if she knew.
    â€œI loved your mother very dearly, Arson. She was my angel. She was my  baby . My own.” That’s what Grandma always said right before she cried. On his mother’s birthday, Grandma always reminded him of what he’d done. Every October 27, she blamed him for taking her precious angel away. “You cursed little demon,” she’d say. “Killer!”
    She was right. Grandma had known his mother better than he’d ever had the chance. All he had was a crumpled photograph of Frances Parker, the woman who died because he was born.
    Killer! You took her away. Killer! You. Killed. Your own mother .
    Arson’s nose filled with snot. Sorrow poured down his cheeks. Heavy rain drops hit the back of his neck and felt like knives cutting pieces of his skin off. His hair lay down in surrender in front of his eyes, a gray crystal blur.
    Arson reached the end of the street and crossed, ignoring the blinding beams of the car speeding toward him. The wet screech of the tires might have otherwise scared him half to death, but tonight was different. He realized how short and fragile life could be. Life ended at any given moment, like the life of the trapped father who would never see his son again or the mother who had died giving birth to him. Arson knew these feelings well and, tonight, welcomed them. Hate for himself, hate for the old and