Matches

This is a short story based off of a poem I read. A bit dark, but nothing too serious. :)

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1. Matches

    "I hate to admit it," I said, my voice smooth and thick with an american accent, "but I have always looked up to the Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime himself! I loved how he always used a knife to savor the small expressions and screams for mercy as people died - as he killed them." I walked forward, sliding my hand into my back pocket and then pulling out a box of matches. I smiled at the family that ran away from me, pushing and shoving their children towards the front door. But they pushed too hard, and one of their children fell, and was trampled on by the thier brothers. Her mother reached to help the fallen child, but the father pulled her away shouting at her to leave her. The small girl, betrayed and scared, flipped to her back to watched as her family ran away, leaving her behind. She called for her parents, her mother or father, but they were gone.

"I always believed it was the same with fire," I added, drawing the girl's attention. She whimpered. "Call me an arsonist, call me a pyromaniac, hell, even call me a murderer, but I can assure you there is nothing more fascinating then seeing something burn. Nothing more intoxicating than smelling burning flesh. Nothing more exciting than seeing flames lick the sky and hot searing fire grow and expand! Nothing more thrilling than to feel the blistering heat of the flames on your skin and watch as people burn alive, trying to roll away the flames and heat to put themselves out of their misery."

The girl backed up to the wall, her eyes jumping back and forth to the gasoline bottle I had tipped over, gushing the flamable liqid across the floor, then to the match I had spinning lazily between my fingers.

The girl looked ready to piss her pants, but I didn't bother myself with her reaction. She'd see what I meant when I showed her. She'd have to. "I promise you, nothing is more fascinating than that," I said, giving the girl a smile. I tilted my head to the side in thought. "Perhaps you're wondering if I have a name. I mean, didn't introduce myself, so you have no idea who I am. But what would you call one like myself who takes pleasure in watching people burn alive? Who loves the flame and fire more than anything else? Who even would consider the Joker, of all people, as a role model?"

The girl had tears well in her eyes, but they went unnoticed her as I had lit the match. Her mouth dropped like she was horrified, and she screamed to protest, but I dropped it into the gasoline. "Noo!" she yelled. "No!" Her protest faded into cries as the match fell, and ignited the gasoline. The gasoline burst into flames and trailed to the door, blocking the girl's only exit. She gasped; and instead of backing away, the young girl moved to jump through the fire, but fell back when the fire spread up the walls. The girl's eyes were wide as she watched the fire jumped at her, teasing her until it got a lucky shot, and caught onto her pants leg.

"Quite simply," I whispered, "you call me Matches." I started to giggle as the fire crawled up the girl's arm and devoured her. Her screams of agony and fear rang through the small room. She was soon a mass of fire on the floor, and I couldn't wipe the dreamy smile off my face as I put the matches back into my pocket.

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