Baptism by Fire

By Andrew Monge

A lone tree.

A large sun shining down from above.

A unicorn galloping with a young girl on its back, her arms upraised in triumph.

Clare found the crudely drawn figures low on the headboard, lightly penciled on the faded varnish so her dad wouldn’t see them when he came to her room. She traced her fingers over the image, remembering what it was like to lose herself in that sunshiney landscape, to feel the wind through her hair as the unicorn raced her away from this place.

From what her father was doing behind her in bed.

It had been over twenty years since she’d been in this room, since he’d hurt her for the last time. When she ran away as a sixteen-year-old she vowed to never set foot in the house again. But then her dad passed away last year after his liver couldn’t take the abuse anymore, and the old farmhouse had been left to her. God alone knew why.

Clare reached down for the can and poured gasoline all over her bed, putting a little extra on the drawings. Pivoting, she left the room, leaving a trail of gas as she walked. At the top of the staircase she made a puddle where a baluster was missing from the rail, broken when her father had thrown Clare into it for leaving a toy on the floor at age eight. Down the stairs, into the kitchen, pausing to douse a hole in the wall where her skullhad violently bounced against it after her dad’s dinner had been served too cold for his liking. Onward to the living-room recliner, his throne, upon which he barked orders until he drunkenly passed out each day. It was here Clare emptied the rest of the can.

Turning in a slow circle, taking it all in one last time, she pulled a Zippo from her pocket, spun the flint wheel, and tossed it onto the chair. A satisfying whump put a smile on Clare’s face as she backed her way outside.

Within minutes the house was fully engulfed. The wind from the conflagration blew the hair back from her face. Clare closed her eyes and raised her chin toward the fiery heat. She noted how its warmth felt like the sun from her safe place. Lifting both arms above her head, she pumped her fists and screamed to the heavens. As she turned to leave, gouts of flame erupted from the attic windows, giving her shadow the appearance of wings.

BIO:

Andrew Monge (Twitter: @MuchAdoAboutNil) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. “Baptism by Fire” is dedicated to Jack Presby.