There was only one gallon left. She poured the gasoline across the porch, splattering it in random patterns. When she was done, she tossed the jug into the house and shut the front door. The house soaked in the fluid like a sponge sitting on the kitchen counter--from the bottom up.
She struck a match and tossed it on the soaked porch. She struck another match and tossed it into the damp interior of the station wagon parked in front of the house, on the grass. She walked to the street and sat at the very edge of the lawn.
The flames started slowly at first--tiny sparks licking their way across the wood. But soon, the entire front of the house was in a halo of light and the flames feeding from seat upholstery began peeking out the car windows.
Smell and heat buried themselves in her lungs and skin and slowly but surely, she felt everything being drained from her. The fire was cleansing and purifying--eliminating everything. No more of him. Clothes, furniture, photos, nothing. Not even the poetry that she had spent countless hours penning and agonizing over. Or that sweater he had given her on their first date.
Nothing. Who was he again? Why was she doing this?
Her muscles felt limp and relaxed and her mouth naturally moved upward. The fire was beautiful, she mused as sirens in the distance wailed inching ever closer.
