Arson by Estevan Vega Page B

gray world that hated him. It seemed like hatred was a gift tonight. It felt good; it felt right.
    The road split, and he paused. He knew which way was home and chose the other.
    â€œWatch where you’re going!” another incensed driver hollered. “You could get yourself killed!”
    Arson began to run. “I deserve it,” he whispered. The water felt hot even though he was sure it wasn’t. Maybe it was coming from inside. Suddenly, he stopped still in the middle of the street. Looked around. The world was dead, asleep. Every wandering thought stormed him at once—a childhood he never had, the mother who created a monster, screams of a burning victim trapped in a house without rescue.  Killer !
    His eyes searched the darkness. Still no one. The fire inside begged for release, like a serpent slithering beneath wet flesh. The headache, the numbing rain pouring down from a God he never saw, never knew. In one fluid motion, the serpent took over. It slithered its way to his wrists and spread to the tips of his wrinkled fingers, gasps of fire licking with each twitch. The stop sign to his right suddenly went up in smoke. The telephone pole to his left wilted to black powder and ash. Electric sparks soon illuminated the night. Arson breathed deeply, tears dripping from lit-up eyes. He screamed, unleashing another wave of heat from his body.
    The fire felt good.
    Â 
    * * *
    Â 
    â€œI hate the rain,” Emery moaned, sitting at the foot of her bed. She toyed with her mask, wishing it were a face instead. She lifted it a bit to feel the flesh beneath while listening to the patter of rain smacking against the windowsill.
    â€œWhy do you hate the rain?” Aimee asked with stressed-out eyes.
    â€œIt makes me sad and depressed.”
    As her mother drew closer, Emery remained tense. She hated how her mother looked at her, like a monster. It was obvious her parents had never seen her the same since that day.
    â€œI guess it’s normal to feel depressed when it rains, honey.  They  say that weather can sometimes dictate the way we feel.  They  often say that our emotions are fickle, much like the weather.” Aimee looked as though she wanted to smile, but her face wouldn’t allow it.
    â€œWhatever. You’re not as funny as you think, Mom.”
    â€œWell, sorry. We can’t all be as funny as your father.”
    Emery saw her mother cringe but ignored it. Instead she tilted her head slightly and stared through the glass window, out into a gray world filled with tears. “I hate the rain,” she sighed again, this time murmuring.
    A hand brushed the back of her shoulder where the white nightgown Emery let droop to her elbow hung. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
    Emery was silent.
    â€œHoney?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou seem like you’re thinking about something. You were staring out into space. What’s wrong with you?”
    â€œNothing,” Emery replied. The last thing she wanted was the possibility of an argument, however small or unprovoked.
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. Tell me what’s bothering you.” She felt her mother reach to rub her back, but instead Emery coiled up around her pillow. “It’s the new house, isn’t it? A new bedroom you’re not used to. This ugly town feels more like the set of some low-budget horror movie than home.”
    She focused on her mother, suddenly this opinionated list maker who formed a spreadsheet of all the wrong things.
    â€œGod only knows who our neighbors are,” Aimee continued. “Gosh, I can’t get that creepy boy out of my head. Who sneaks up on people and watches them like that?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe he was just interested in who we are.”
    â€œYeah, well, I’d like to know what kind of people live around here. There’s no telling how bizarre they might be. Heaven forbid we wake up one morning