Pyro

Frank was boring; he always had been, and it seemed as though he was destined to always be. No grand surprise ever came by way of Frank as he religiously stuck to the routines of his day, the rituals of his life. No one could see the feelings growing within, burning to get out of that boring little chest. No one but Frank. 

A generic tone began Frank’s day with neither dread nor joy. He went about his hygiene as he did every day, fussed over his tie for a few minutes as he did every day, and raced to the office across town in a crappy little car through honking rows of traffic as he did every day. He would go to the cramped kitchen and make his sad, little breakfast before the shift began. Frank was the kind of guy who ate his toast dry, drank his coffee weak and flavorless, and bought his lunch in bulk from the freezer section. Flavor was of no concern to him; he ate because he had to.

Today, like yesterday and the day before, Frank would spend his day clacking away in a cubicle, entering data from the stacks of documents on his desk, line after line, key after key, another person’s words, another person’s labor. The work suited him.

Occasionally, he’d find himself at the water cooler making awkward small talk with his coworkers. They’d usually talk about the weather and sports, but today, as they always did on Friday, they talked about the weekend. When asked what he had planned, Frank gave the same answer, Nothing, just the usual. He almost giggled through the lie. After his one and only line had been delivered, he found himself back in his cubby, clacking away at the keyboard, chiseling away at the day left ahead.  

Today, he had been making great time. He only had two folders left to get through, and it wasn’t even lunch time. He worked away in his steady rhythm, turning hard copies into digital files, until he pressed save on the last document with a triumphant snap of the keys. He sat back, a silly little smile, a twinge of pride on his face as he thought of the weekend ahead. Slowly though, his smile began to fade as he saw his group manager carting more files to process down the aisle of cubicles, just in time for lunch too. 

What saved him, really, was his smoke break after lunch. It wasn’t the rush of nicotine that relieved him but the overwhelming surge of power he felt in that moment. He controlled the situation entirely. He could choose to smoke or not to smoke. He could choose what brand he smoked or didn’t smoke. He could control how fast or slow he let the ember burn and see, in real time, the power he had over something as he watched the white, virgin paper of the cigarette slowly grow brown, then black, and fade to ash. For once that day, the choice was his. The red glow of fire at the end of his lips grew, waned, and died as he wished. For ten minutes, Frank could be king. 

At home after a long day, Frank slogged in, threw his keys on the counter, and kicked off his shoes. The fact that it was the last day of a long week made him especially tired. He made his way to the kitchen and warmed up a frozen meal of brown meat and runny gravy before settling in on his couch to watch the news. The forecast called for no rain, and a smile twisted onto Frank’s face. Things were lining up. 

After dinner, he stood barefoot on the cold grit of his concrete stoop as the racket of the city stirred against the brown skies of a light-polluted night. He brought the cigarette to his lips as the warm glow grew over his face, a lightning bug or firefly in the dark. Dried leaves scurried across his feet with the light autumn breeze. They’d fallen from the pitiful, twisted tree outside his door. He bent down to pick one up and brought it to his ember, creating a ring of fire. He watched the ring grow and breathe and shiver with life as he held it in his hand. The color pulsed with the wind like a gentle heartbeat, wanting to grow, wanting to live. The sirens, dogs, and lonesome sounds of the wind gliding through the streets of the city surrounded him. He crushed the cigarette and leaf on the wall to his left and headed in to sleep. He had a big day tomorrow after all.  

He could never be too careful about the house he picked. He’d been at this a while, but it still paid to be cautious. If he picked a home too close to the city, then he couldn’t stay and watch. Too many people would see. He didn’t like to pick a home that was run-down or abandoned. He had in the beginning, but now he preferred fully furnished homes that shone with all their beauty. He liked a staged house owned by a development company but loved an empty home whose owners were out of town. All of that life being reduced to ash excited him.  

He kept a list in his head of houses he’d scouted earlier in the week that met his criteria. He drove to 16 Lawrence Drive, but the lights were on as a family of four had their dinner through the glass of the dining room window. They looked like some kind of commercial that told you to spend more time with your kids or some other bizarre initiative the government had decided to endorse that day. They smiled, and laughed, and lived in a wholesome bubble of ordinariness as an extraordinary predator lurked out their window watching, waiting to destroy all they had built. Frank knew it wouldn’t be tonight, but soon the home would be brighter than ever. The windows would crack. The paint on the walls and the marks on the door frame where the kids had charted their growth would melt away. All of this would end, and it would end in a matter of minutes, once the time was right. 

He drove to the next home, and his heart began to beat a little harder as he parked on the curb and waited to be sure. 1577 Orchard Lane was a quaint lot in a spacious neighborhood outside of town. Each home was built in a similar Craftsman style and had been on Frank’s list for quite some time now. The lights were off. No car was in the drive. He couldn't sit still as he waited in the agony of anticipation. To his dismay, headlights beamed down the road behind and pulled into the drive of the home. Slightly annoyed, Frank started his engine and tore out into the dark veil of night to continue his search. 

The lights were off at the next home, an old two-story that had been under renovation. The ‘for sale’ sign marked to Frank that she hadn't been occupied yet; less than ideal, but she would have to do. The house looked different in the dark; they always did. Something about the moment before made their details and features vivid. On the grass, in the dark, together, so close, things became more than a fantasy. A Rubicon approached, and for Frank, the time was now. 

He drove his car around the street to a wooded little park with a walking trail that jutted up to the home he’d chosen. He removed his tools from the trunk and skulked through the trees toward her. He crept over the cool, green grass of the back yard with a bucket of Coleman camp fuel in hand and a bundle of firestarter under his arm. He set them by the bushes and peered into the kitchen to see a fully furnished home. He noted that there were several boxes by the back door and trash in the cans from what he guessed had been some open house. However, what Frank didn't see was that the sign in the front yard actually read ‘sold’. 

Mistakenly convinced that the home was unoccupied, Frank made his way to the side and unscrewed a vent to the crawlspace with his multitool. He got on his stomach and slithered inside. He inched through the fine moon dust of age that all crawl spaces seem to accumulate until he was in the center of the home. He placed the fire-starting brick on the ground, folded a piece of insulation he’d ripped from above into a circle around it, and poured fuel from his can onto the mass. He knew to go easy so as not to soak himself like he had done a few times before. He inched back and extended his grill lighter to ignite the pile in a small but instant gush of brilliance.

He had to move with deliberate purpose so he could get the next spot lit; no time to enjoy it just yet. The fire grew to the insulation above and crawled slowly up and over the joist. He inched out steadily with his tools. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast when you are tangled up in this bit of business. He put the vent back into place, then calmly made his way to the front of the house, where he used his tool to cut and break away the lattice of the steps to the porch to begin another fire. 

Frank watched from the trees as the golden flames licked the sides of the home. The windows and the walls shimmered behind the waves of heat and illuminated the yard like some magnificent sun cascading life through the vast darkness of interstellar void. Things were going as planned until Frank heard a woman scream from within the glowing home. Shocked, eyes wide, Frank stared at the terrible scene before him as he saw a young couple fight in futility at the flames engulfing their bedroom door. Smoke poured out of the home as the couple cried and coughed, and choked for help. It became quiet, except for the hiss and gasp of the flames as they consumed the home. The intimate stillness of the fire in the night was interrupted by the crashing of glass and meat smacking the pavement from the second-story window. Intrigued, Frank left the trees and eased over to see the husband lying face flat on the concrete walkway as black blood oozed from his broken body. He kneeled down beside him and listened to his smoke-scoured lungs rattle with their last breath of cool, damp autumn air. Frank felt a tremendous surge of energy flow over his body, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. This was nothing like the first structure he’d ever lit, not even close. This terrible evil, this raw power of death, was something else. This was new. 

Frank sat in his cubicle, unable to think of anything other than the wild weekend he’d just experienced. He got up to stretch his legs and get a drink at the water cooler. He lifted the paper cone to his lips and smelled the faint musk of smoke on his knuckles. He smiled, then refilled his paper cup. He stood looking out at the office and watched his coworkers type away, completely unaware of his actions over the past few days; completely unaware of his power. And why would they be? Why would they suspect boring old Frank? He lifted the water to his lips, drinking in the smoke through his nose, and said a little prayer that the rain would stay away for just a little while longer.