Prologue

Cole Shackleford was born in London. He was born in the early morning of November 5th, as the sky was lightening, making it easier to see the city backdrop and the three or four bonfires burning in the streets from his mother’s hospital room window.

Before Cole was a year old, his family moved to London from Scotland, and his life progressed normally—that is, for a would-be pyromaniac.

Cole, by the time he was ten, started playing with matches, started smoking, always had a lighter, dabbled in minor homemade explosives, and was always searching.

By age eighteen, he regularly did two things he liked: seeing his psychiatrist and setting fires. Dr Lewis Ray had become a game to Cole. He led Dr Ray down dead ends and kept him on the line, making him think they were progressing and pulling the rug out with huge setbacks.

Cole was knowledgeable and liked manipulating people, especially those who thought they were intelligent, especially Dr Ray.

In actuality, counselling was pushing Cole further and further towards
insanity. On the other hand, watching fires was the only thing that made Cole feel sane.

This is Cole’s story, his escape from society and his journey of destruction.


Chapter One - Part One: The Priest

I’m in a large, sterile room—not like a hospital sterile, but sterile as in the absence of characters like robots or the soulless people who designed it. Large, shiny black tiles cover the floor, and substantial stainless-steel cabinets without handles line the walls.

Only a handful of people, a podium, and a coffin occupy the vast floor space. The coffin is on a stainless steel gurney against the wall behind the podium.

The priest is standing between the podium and the coffin, saying something quite impersonal—words so often used they have lost meaning. Something the priest doesn’t hide well. Some of those words may affect others in attendance. Most seem upset, but maybe they feel this is how they should appear—looking as if they have a chest of drawers at home, each drawer containing different expressions or emotions.

Depending on the situation, they reach into the appropriate drawer and put on today’s mask. Today’s expressions seemed to be from the drawer marked sadness, but as I looked closer, I saw hints that some had masks from the fear drawer. Or maybe I saw some other reality slipping out from behind the dark costumes.

The priest finishes. A man steps up to the podium. I recognize him as Dad. Now, this should be interesting. He’s looking down, apparently in sorrow, but when he looks up and opens his eyes — nothing there — empty sockets, personal black holes from which no gaze can escape. He seems unaffected and opens his mouth to give his eulogy, but nothing comes out.

Slowly, his face changes from calm to fear, from fear to terror, from terror to horror.

One of the stainless steel cabinet doors slides open as if by magic. The room is blasted with heat and filled with the sound of gas-powered flames cranked full blast. Even the fire inside is sterile: a pretty blue with orange tips, arranged around the sides, all shooting toward the centre, leaving about a two-foot-by-one-foot rectangle of wavering blackness in the middle.

Two men from the party start pushing my coffin towards the flames in the open cabinet. I start sliding off the gurney. I can see the wood start cooking instantly.

Looking down at my feet, I can hear them kicking. My hands are pounding on the lid. In the distance, I can hear my voice screaming. I feel the heat. My feet slowly melt, and the screaming lessens. The heat is searing; my feet become ash. I’m silent. I’m smiling.

Chapter One - Part Two: The Therapist

I came out of my daydream to hear Dr Ray say, “Well, that’s probablya thing relates to your mother.”
 
My mother. How original and unpredictable. Since he kept interrupting me, I decided to give him something he would have to sink his teeth into. I told him that I felt like I was tied to a chair, my eyes held open with surgical tape, being forced to watch this story unfold in front of me. The story was my life, and it was going by so fast that I couldn’t feel myself a part of it. I couldn’t participate and didn’t even want to watch, but I had to. I had no control. I knew that the end was my unpleasant demise and that it was coming fast, too fast, but I couldn’t stop watching. I was numb.

That ought to hold him.

He said, “Well, Cole, the session’s over. We’ll pick it up there next time.”

He was trying to look and sound measured and calm, but I knew he would run for a cigarette to light with his shaky hand as soon as possible.

Driving home, I realized that counselling sucked and was getting increasingly dull. It used to be a good distraction, but now I needed something more to fill my time, something to think about. I couldn’t even keep myself from daydreaming during the sessions anymore.

I did have another pastime, but I wondered whether it was severe enough to occupy my time. I liked lighting fires. I knew it; I wasn’t in denial about it. I even knew it was a bit nuts. That’s why I allowed my parents to talk me into seeing Dr Ray. I have always known I was crazy — not crazy enough not to know I was.

It started with lighters and firecrackers. One day, when I was hiding from my parents to have a cigarette, I dropped my lighter, and it caught a bunch of dry grass on fire. I was amazed at how fast the flames spread. I ran back to my Mum and Dad, trying to stay calm, but my heart was beating a million miles a minute.

Pretty soon, it seemed like the whole hillside was engulfed in flames. My parents noticed it about the same time we could hear sirens approaching. Soon, we were standing in a small group, awed by the hill. On the outside, I was one of the crowd, but as the firemen ran by and got out their equipment, something big started to sink into my young mind. I realized that I had caused this, that it was all my fault, and no one knew.

It was my secret fire.

​

Chapter Two: Getting What I Came For

Since then, I have been responsible for several canyon fires, including one that lasted all night. Once, I even burned an old abandoned barn to the ground. After lighting it, I noticed a group of peers watching the flames and snuck around to join them.

They were too stunned to act.

They had no idea what they were looking at with their jaws hanging open. Little did they know how different we were. Before each of these fires, I felt very excited, but afterward I felt somewhat empty. Now, I wondered if setting fires was enough of a hobby to keep me occupied — enough to occupy my time and mind. I thought so. I stretched out that pre-fire feeling, especially if I concentrated on the preparation. And maybe the better the tricks became, the more satisfaction I could get afterward.

So, I started formulating a plan that included renting a storage unit, researching helpful websites, and stealing my mum’s credit card to raise funds. I knew there was a risk, but my life had gotten to the point where boredom seemed the most significant risk. So that was it; the decision was made. I would start to focus my creative energy on setting fires. I would stop playing around and doing things on a whim. I would develop a prep plan and an overall strategy. I would continue to see my shrink, though. There might still be some more things to learn there about fucking with people’s heads. And even if there weren’t, it was always fun to fuck with Dr. Ray’s head.

I loved my little storage unit. It was small, and for now, it was barren: it had only one plastic five-gallon gas can sitting alone in a corner. It would look much different in the future, but that was all I needed for now. I was excited about my first real trick, and the plan was solid. I had loose plans for my following three or four tricks. The Internet had been beneficial, and even if I couldn’t find the info I wanted on some terrorist self-help site, I could usually find someone in a chat room with destructive knowledge to share.

Some of my future tricks were shaping to be extravagant affairs, but my first would be a superficial burn. I could feel the heat already. I loved it. My five-gallon gas can would be just about all the supplies I needed. I felt a need to graduate from grass and canyon fires, and I had the perfect plan to do that in a big way. I knew of an abandoned house in East County; the kids were scared, so I set the trick up at night. As I got dressed to go out for the evening’s events, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. I was wearing dark sweats and a dark shirt. I parked my car behind the house at the bottom of a big hill. I thought that was far enough away, and, as I said, the area wasn’t very populated. I was nervous, but I didn’t know there was a significant risk of being seen.

I got my gas can out of the trunk and noticed again that I couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off of my face. It felt like I'd had a few beers or a bong hit and was amongst friends. I navy-sealed up the hill and found a way into the house through a boarded-up sliding glass door. I surveyed my surroundings and saw nothing but desertion and dead silence. This was too easy; this was too cool. Besides the fuel I’d brought, any supplies I needed awaited me. I found an old mattress and a pile of garbage with many papers in it. I soaked the mattress and papers in unleaded and moved them strategically throughout the condemned house. I still felt giddy, but other feelings had snuck into my psyche. I felt focused, efficient, and productive. I loved how I felt. I made some fuel trails from the mattress and the papers to the centre of the main room. About a quarter of the gas can still be left, so I just laid the can on its side.

I had developed the ignition system independently. It was just a tiny battery-powered alarm clock whose wiring I had tapped into and connected to a model rocket igniter, like a simple little time-release match. When this alarm went off, it would be a fire alarm. I laid the igniter just inside the lip of the gas can, set the alarm for forty-five minutes, and stood up to inspect my handiwork. It looked good; it would look better in about an hour. I hadn’t left anything traceable. The gas can, clock, and igniter had all been sitting around my parents’ house forever, so there was no way to connect them to me. I doubted there would be much evidence of them left by the time the authorities arrived, anyway. I returned to the car and drove to my viewing point without incident, with about fifteen minutes to spare. I felt better than I ever had in my life. I felt like an expectant father. Waiting for my wife, Hell, to bear her offspring, Fire.

I was ready to start passing out cigars.

This must be what artists or musicians feel while painting or composing. I was creating power, creating destruction. I saw a flash through a window. Or did I? It took a little time for confirmation. I could see the light and shadow flicker in both the windows, visible from where I was watching. I thought I was going to cream my jeans. I was lost; I couldn’t see anything else. It was everything to me. Flames started spilling out of the windows, cooking and heating the wood above. I could see death in the black smoke just above the fire.

I swore I could hear screaming.

As the flames took hold, I could feel negative thoughts and feelings lifting off me, rising like the smoke from the blaze. But the smoke didn’t disappear entirely; it settled over the surrounding landscape, suffocating and dirty. It was nice, very nice. I saw a piece of the roof collapse, leaving a hole that was soon filled with fire. From there, it took only a short time to achieve destruction. The window flames crawled up to meet the roof flames, and soon, the whole house was a party.

There was no subtlety or question anymore. This house was burning and would continue until it became a giant briquette. I stared with shameless glee as the flames flicked higher and higher, like a dragon’s forked tongue licking at the blackened sky. I still felt drunk, but I also felt a bit spent, so I decided it was time to go.

I had gotten what I came for.

​

Chapter Three - The Family

I wasn't sure where I was when I opened my eyes the following day. The sun and the gentle breeze coming through my window were teaming up to create confusing shadow and light patterns on my walls and ceiling. I felt hungover. I rubbed my eyes briefly and realized I was waking up constantly.

I thought about where to go from here. I didn’t have much choice; I would act normally. I would get some breakfast if I didn’t puke first. I snuck into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. It didn’t help. I still felt covered in shit. I went down the hall and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I realized there was no reason to sneak.

Mom was chattering on and on to Dad, but she was talking to herself. Dad often affirmed his existence by giving her a rattle of the morning paper — often enough to prove he wasn’t completely dead. I used to worry about them but realized a while back that they had settled into a relationship dance. They probably loved it. Mom wanted the ability to talk to herself out loud and non-stop without looking crazy, and Dad had some background noise fetish.

They were perfect for each other.

I slid into a kitchen chair. Mom brought me a bowl of cereal and kissed my forehead. I looked at her from under my eyebrows and said, “Good morning.”

Everything appeared normal, but I felt submerged in thick gel; every movement was sticky and slow. As time passed, the feeling faded a bit. I looked at Dad’s paper from the corner of my eye and saw nothing about my trick. I guess I didn’t expect it to be front-page news. I continued to eat my breakfast; Mom continued, and Dad read his paper, sealed in silence. Everything was normal — except me.

I had a huge secret, and the world stayed normal.

The hangover dissipated like sand through an hourglass. The substance moving up into the top of the glass to replace the sand wasn’t air– it was anger. I should have been as happy as I had ever been. I had started living my dreams, but something still wasn’t right. It was pissing me off.

With a final rattle, Dad folded the paper and set it down on the table. He stood, put on his jacket, and gave it a single two-handed down brush for good measure. He leaned over and kissed Mom on the forehead. Then he looked straight at me and said, “Have a good day, son.”

I had a mouth full of cereal, so I just stared into his eyes and chewed. He sounded sincere, but all I could see was plastic. He made a thumb-plus-finger-equals-gun hand gesture and pointed it at me with a simultaneous click.

If he had only known what he had produced.

When he finally left, I grabbed the paper and ran up the stairs. Mom called out, “Don’t forget about your visit today.”

She meant my weekly appointment with Dr. Ray. They had money; they had a child with a problem they couldn’t understand; I had a weekly date with boredom and incompetence.

I liked Dr. Ray, not as a friend or respected professional, but as a semi-entertaining time killer, a game I could interact with. Fucking with Dr. Ray’s head had become the least boring thing in my life, until last night. Maybe he will have heard about my artistry in arson.

In my room, as I thumbed through page after page of the newspaper, my anger continued, growing like a nuclear-waste-fertilized rose ending in a massive bloom. Not one word about my fire. Come on! I know San Diego is a big area. Still, I didn’t think the dog show, a variety of political shenanigans, and housekeeping tips from Martha Stewart warranted more ink than my trick.

My fire meant a lot to me, but it didn’t seem to matter to the rest of the world. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps that was why I felt like shit. I had to find a way to change that — to make them see. Dr. Ray never struck me as the type of psychologist who exuded competence. He was usually mousey and in the wrong profession. He usually repeated my questions or comments or asked me how I felt. Nothing was happening in his head; we were spinning our wheels together.

As far as my parents were concerned, he was good enough to dump me with him for an hour a week, so they felt they were doing something. Now and then, he would come up with something that would amaze me, something intelligent or insightful.

In the twenty-floor elevator ride up to his office, I continued the conversation I had been having all morning with myself. I didn’t know which I felt more — anger, frustration, or confusion. I did know I was not feeling optimistic, and I was not in the mood to fuck around.

At the beginning of my visits, Dr. Ray seemed the same as always: polite and tense. He also looked the same — like a throwback to the fifties styles you see in your parents’ pictures when they blow the dust off the family album.

With his thick black-framed glasses, white shirt, thin black tie, dress pants thrown in the stiff posture, and monotone vocal delivery, he could have stepped out of a midnight rerun of Dragnet.

“How are you today, Cole?” he asked. For my response, I tried to come up with something clever, but my dark mood overshadowed my sarcasm. So, instead, I stayed on my not-fucking-around course.

“I’m shitty, Dr. Ray… very shitty.” I walked past him and sat on the couch.

“Well, why do you think that is? Is there something specific you would like to talk about?”

Man… two sentences, two question marks, two strikes, and you’re out. Classic Dr. Ray — maybe he thought he had only so many exclamation marks and had to ration them carefully. That was all right; I felt I had enough exclamation marks for us today.

“Have you heard of any fires today, Dr. Ray?” Whoa! I wasn’t planning on fucking around, but that question surprised even me; it just came out.

Dr. Ray looked as surprised and puzzled as I felt. “What do you mean, Cole? What fires?”

Damn! It was official. Nobody knew about my fire. That was it. My anger had boiled over, and my head wouldn’t release the pressure. It was like holding something scalding in your hand and letting it burn your hand because you know that if you let it go, something even worse than the burning will happen. So, you hold on to it because you have to, and get burned because it’s hot.

“How do you feel about hate, Dr. Ray? Is it ok to hate? Is it natural? Can it be healthy or positive in any way?” I was still trying to determine where the words had come from this time. Anger was my co-pilot and had taken over the controls.

“Well, those are complex questions, Cole. I don’t know if we can handle all of them that fast. Hate is an emotion — a feeling — just like any other feeling, it is natural. We can have valid reasons for feeling hate, but the feeling needs to be dealt with.”

Ok, now we were getting somewhere.

“So if you hated someone, that must be dealt with?” I continued.

“Yes,” he said. “That feeling would have to be dealt with.”

As far as I was concerned, if the feeling was natural and valid, then the hated person or object was what needed to be dealt with. This sounded very good to me. It’s exactly what I had hoped. The only thing left was to figure out how to deal with it. I was pretty sure I knew. I had already started, but now I had to think on a larger scale.

I didn’t hate just one person or one object.

I hated everyone.
I hated everything.
I hated the world.​

 

Chapter Four - Anger and Fear

The only things reflecting in the calm black river, other than the thin red sliver of moon, are flames — large, hungry flames spitting out of five gas lamps illuminating the end of a long bamboo dock. The four men on the dock seem as calm as the water, but the tension is below the surface. They are dressed in ceremonial garb, including brightly painted skin and dark, contrasting masks. Their skin colours are so vivid that they could not be of this world. The masks are long and hellishly beautiful.

Each man wears a different mask, but they are all thin, made of ebony or something that looks like it, and very black and smooth. Each mask is a carved, angular face depicting a negative emotion. One is angry, one is afraid, one is sad, and one is indifferent. They all have the same huge, rectangular, empty eyes. The corpse on the raft is mummified in oily rags with only its head exposed. Its eyes and mouth are both sewn shut with a thick, primitive twine. You can smell the water; its dampness saturates everything. That was the only smell, though. There are no other smells you might typically associate with a river, such as fish or human waste.

This river is pure death.

The water started flowing faster and got a bit choppy. The masked men began a ceremony. They each picked up a flaming lamp, danced with it, and set it down again. They stood in curious positions about each other. They put the lamps’ flames close to the dry reeds of the float of death on which my body was resting.

The river is flowing fast enough now that the ropes holding the raft to the dock are pulled tight. Suddenly, the Anger mask appears to be upset with the Fear mask. Anger carefully sets his lamp on the pier, then charges at Fear, clotheslining him at the neck. Fear drops his lamp. Fuel and fire spill out, bite off a big chunk of the dock, and start chewing. None of the pyre dancers notices as the fight between Anger and Fear continues. The river water is flowing very fast now. Drowning would seem a certainty now, even for a strong swimmer. One of the ropes on my raft breaks, and I am rapidly swept to the entire length of the remaining rope, about ten or fifteen feet from the end of the dock.

After I visited with Dr. Ray, I felt very strange. Of course, most people would consider blacking out, psychotic dreams, and violent fantasies and plans to be weird, but these were all things I was getting used to. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about how Dr. Ray had said that hate was a normal feeling that needed to be dealt with. I got home and started planning my next trick right away. Because I was dissatisfied with the visibility of my last trick, I knew this one had to be more significant. I had gotten the idea for it from Dr. Ray himself. My hate “needed to be dealt with,” and one of the things I hated most was school.

The idea was perfect.

Like most schools these days, mine was designed to look like a prison. The building was 90% concrete, and the remaining 10% was mainly glass, shaped into these long, thin windows just big enough for a guard to stick his gun through. So, torching the main building was out. Still, they realized it was too small right after it was built, so they immediately constructed a separate complex of buildings away from the main structure, adding another ten or twelve classrooms to the campus.

I had a third-period history class with Mr. Wood in that complex just a month ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, it would burn. These buildings were a bit more conventional. They looked exactly like they were: hallways with classrooms on either side. I remembered a small storage area attached to the outside of one of them and locked only with a padlock. It was summer break so that no one would be there other than the ghosts of chattel past. It sounded better than good. This would be more risky than the last trick, though. The school was in the middle of a residential area, and even though the storage shed was at the back of the building, I still had to sneak out to it to get the needed supplies. It would be worth it. The added risk only fed my excitement.

This would get recognized.

This would be perfect. I was going to need more than gasoline for this one. I went home, ignored my mom’s chattering greetings, and went straight to my computer: the Internet, a dependable friend to all pervs, nerds, and terrorists. I typed, “I want to blow shit up” into the search engine and, surprisingly enough, got about fifty sites that matched my request.

Of course, most of them were boring, but my joke got me some results from which I could link to many useful sites. You’d be amazed at how many household items can be used to make explosives! I also found some help in gaining supplies without leaving any suspicious trail and minimising evidence left at the burn site.

My storage unit would look quite a bit different soon. It felt good to be working. I felt productive. I realized I was whistling and laughing at myself. I spent the remainder of my free time this week acquiring money and supplies. The money was mostly stolen from my parents’ cash, and the supplies were always purchased with cash at various locations far from home.

I believed my methods were as safe as possible and wouldn’t be judged by any witnesses as out of the ordinary. They would think differently if they saw my storage unit. It was becoming an ammo dump. Looking around, I noticed it contained much more than I needed for this next trick.

I must have been planning something big.

I felt like Santa in his workshop. The only thing missing was a bunch of little gargoyle elves making hand grenades and stocking stuffers. As soon as I started working, that Yuletide image changed. Now I felt like Mr. Mack, my old chemistry teacher. The missing accessories were a white lab coat and an obvious wig. I wanted to add an explosion to this one. I don’t know why. It seemed an unnatural progression, I guess. The fire was still the most important thing, though. I didn’t expect to blow up the whole building. I wanted some emphasis and punctuation to capitalize the “f” in “fire.”

So here I was, playing chemist, mixing “household items” to make some boom boom.

My mind wandered as I immersed myself in my work and enjoyed the anticipation of my fire. Distraction led to carelessness, and an igniter for a test inadvertently sparked a small pile of powder. It flashed into flame, and my mind caught the fear. In a fraction of a second, before my reflexes took over, I envisioned that little flash igniting the powder keg I was sitting in the middle of.

Then my hand, beyond my control, was on the flaming pile, smothering it. The pain was infinitely intense for a moment and then subsided to a level I would term “interesting.” It was like when a match sticks to your finger for a second, and you feel that brief searing pain.

When it’s over, you quickly stick your finger in your mouth, and it still hurts, but nothing like it did a second before. You might have lived somewhere between the extreme pain and the relief for a moment.

It still hurt quite a bit, but the pain was a welcome trade, considering what might have happened. The burn, like the event that caused it, was minor on the surface, but my heart was pounding fast and hard for some reason.

While I mulled this over, the pain subsided to a dull throb, enough to annoy me while I finished my work but not enough to keep me from doing just that. In the morning, after I had prepared everything I would need and before I planned to execute my trick.

I was very excited.

I was surprised by my lack of nervousness. I went downstairs to play my part in the never-ending production of “The Perfect Family” and ate a whole bowl of cereal. Mom said, “Good morning,” and Dad said nothing. I doubt he even realized I was there. Mom asked, “What are your plans today, Cole?”

I made up some crap about hanging out at the beach and then going to a friend’s until late. I knew she would buy it. My answer didn’t even need to be plausible. She didn’t give a shit about it. I had seen it many times, her faking an interest in me to get a lead-in for what she wanted to say. Then, sure enough, she immediately started on her plans for the day.

Whatever, I played my part as written and tuned her out.

​

​

Chapter Five - The Reality

Dad’s comment during the morning ritual was one of his standard variations.

“You and I will have to get together and do something next weekend, Cole.”

I lifted my eyebrows, chewed a mouthful of cereal, and pointed my spoon at him sarcastically, implying, “Sure thing, Dad.” I knew I would never actually have to face the awful reality of that happening. Dad’s weekends were spent in the yard, garage, or with friends, watching some game where men live out every childhood dream with balls and wearing spandex pants.

Anything to get away. I could understand the getaway. Maybe I should focus my next trick a little closer to home. Wow! How did that get in there? I knew many things in my head would freak people out, but this… I didn’t even want this in my head. It scared me to think about it.

Knowing there was a fire raging in the next room, feeling the heat radiating through the walls, and seeing your death flickering through the crack under the door. I forced myself to stop thinking. I never wanted to think about them again, so I moved it down… way down deep.

I spent the rest of the day mostly killing time, driving around, doing the minimal prep needed before tonight’s trick, and enjoying the anticipation of the perfect flame. I had to fight to keep myself from driving by the school a million times, but I allowed one drive-by to reacquaint myself with the area. Of course, the building was as I remembered it, but I noticed something I hadn’t known about before. Behind my target building was the football field, and behind that was a wooded area. I guess I never noticed that before. I was never much of a jock. That made me laugh out loud; it took planning a terrorist act for me to realize my school had a football field.

I didn’t want to go home during the day, so that morning, I brought all the things I thought I would need: bolt cutters, pipe bombs, gas, and a timed ignition device — check. This last group had been in my car’s trunk all night.

I collected them from storage yesterday. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I had left them there, but I felt better with them close.

When I woke up, it was dark. I had become bored driving around and parked my car at the beach to rest, and I must have fallen asleep. My watch said it was eleven thirty, which meant it was time to change into my Navy SEAL outfit and head back towards the school. I could smell the gasoline in the trunk. It made me smile. Tonight would be recognised. Tonight would be perfect.

As I drove, my mind wandered. I was daydreaming like a young girl with a crush. My mind bounced from issue to issue without any serious thought or feeling. When I regained full awareness, I realised I was right before the school. It was still a bit earlier than I wanted to sneak around, so I thought I would sit tight for a while. My injured hand throbbed dully. My mind settled on the last subject it had wandered to during the drive over: Dr Ray — more specifically, his statement about how hate needed to be dealt with positively.

I hated Dr. Ray. I hated dealing with anything positively.

I hated everything. How the fuck was I supposed to deal with that positively? I wasn’t stupid. I knew “normal” people weren’t compelled to set fires. I was sure plenty of people were cruising the fast lane in their happy little state of non-hatred, but somehow I had missed the on-ramp. I didn’t care. I wanted to stop thinking about it before I got any more worked up. It was time to get to work anyway.

I checked the coast to ensure it was clear and retrieved the large backpack and two large duffel bags from my trunk. The tools of destruction are never light. I carried/dragged my… stuff around the back of the building and located my target. The night was fantastic, and I could smell a hint of powder from the bombs in my bag. I didn’t care about “normal” anymore; I didn’t care about hate. I cared about the task at hand. I cared about flame. I got to the storage closet and somewhat awkwardly sliced through the padlock.

My burned hand made it impossible to use one hand on each end of the bolt cutter’s handles, so I had to put one on my chest and use both hands to pull the other towards it. The doors opened with no big surprises, mostly gardening supplies. Ironically, I had some of the same type of fertilizer in my storage unit. It had a high nitrogen content. I removed all of the school’s supplies and installed my own.

I had ten pipe bombs and two five-gallon gas cans, all pre-wired with igniters run from another alarm clock. I took a third gas can and soaked down as much of the storage shed and the building it was attached to as possible. I stopped and looked around to ensure I hadn’t carelessly left anything I didn’t need to. I also absorbed the view of my handiwork — the prep. The handiwork would be viewed in about half an hour. I breathed more gas fumes, closed my eyes, and exhaled visions of perfection. Then, I quickly gathered my gear and left.

I drove my car about two miles away, parked, changed into more normal clothes, and returned to the vantage point in the woods I had scouted out earlier. Then I waited. Again, I fantasised about the perfect blaze. The warmth washed over me in waves, the taste of soot in the air, the charred, smouldering, flattened remains of the once helpful structure. Then, a strange feeling crept over me — one I had never had before. Doubt. What if the igniters failed? What if I hadn’t made the bombs correctly?

What if the alarm clock didn’t work?

There would be a shitload of evidence sitting in a storage shed, waiting for the landscaper to come along in his green pants and colossal straw hat and tell the authorities about it. I followed the instructions, tested what I could, and checked and double-checked. But. If this shit didn’t work, I would be fucked, and I had no idea how.

I heard a low thud of combustion, like a Tyson combination, in my brain. It was immediately followed by a fireball that transformed into a miniature mushroom cloud of flame, framed by heavy black smoke. I swore I could smell brimstone. I felt a small amount of concussion from the blast, even though it was at least two or three hundred yards away. The column of a fire stirred within itself, circulating in search of the blackened sky, then disappeared, leaving a thick black-and-grey fog. I could see tiny twinkles of light filter through the blackness like individual rays of nurturing sunlight blinking through a shifting interwoven canopy of leaves.

Then, the flame became more robust because the blaze grew or the low smoke dissipated. The explosion was the perfect complement to the fire. The blast appeared to spread the fire instantly. The initial explosion immediately ignited most of the building, intensifying the fire. It already dwarfed the reasonably large structure.

It raged, devouring without vision, leaving nothing but emptiness. I felt strange. The fire was beautiful, and it was mine, but maybe I was tired. Perhaps I was overwhelmed. I decided not to overthink it and tried to enjoy the moment. I will let it go, sleep on it tonight, and think about tomorrow. Let’s see them leave this out of the paper.

A large crowd was gathering, and I could hear the sirens of heroes in the distance. No big surprise, since this public event had been announced with authority about five minutes ago. I decided to make my getaway and snuck back to my car. My mind was empty on the drive home, blank — as hollow as the space the fire would leave above the ashes. I got home, went through the darkened house to my room, left a trail of clothes from my door to my bed, and was asleep in about five seconds.

After the first fire, I woke up feeling wrecked, and my mind was excited, curious, and nervous. This time, my body felt fine, and my mind was dead. I was not brain-dead; I was completely awake and alert, but I was numb from the neck up. It was perfect. It went off without a hitch. I had already seen evidence of recognition, and here I was, safe and sound, lying in my bed, unmolested by authorities.

It was perfect.

Why did it sound like I was trying to convince myself in what should have been a moment of triumph? The injury from my little mistake during prep the day before yesterday had become a low-sustained pain. It was a welcome distraction. I felt better focusing on that and avoiding thinking about last night. My mind was bright, but the shimmering shadows endured.

I went down to the kitchen and joined the zombies. I felt neither my usual disdain for them nor the fear of being caught that I thought after the last trick. I felt like one of them. When Dad saw me, he said, “Looks like your school burned to the ground last night, Cole. “Good thing it’s summer, or you might have missed a day or two.”

His attempt at humour.

Mom rushed over, rustled my hair, grabbed me under my jaw with both hands, lifted my face until we were staring eye to eye, and said, “You look tired. How late did you stay out last night? Did you get enough sleep?”

They were zombies — oblivious to the darkness they were immersed in and the passion staring them in the face. I thought about helping them, trying to save them, trying to snap them out of it, but of course, I’m pretty sure that would have been impossible and would have meant a fundamental change in me. It was far too late for that. The fires… and the madness had developed lives of their own… I was a helpless ash caught in the superheated updraft.

I ignored them and found the section of the paper containing the article about my trick. It was the front page of the local section—not too shabby. I skimmed it while Mom brought a bowl of cereal.

The authorities suspected arson. No shit! But they suspected it was some prank that got out of hand. Out of hand? No way. Not in my opinion.

Logistically, it had gone perfectly, even if I hadn’t found the satisfaction I sought. I skimmed down some more, a small complex of buildings. There was a total loss of $500,000 in damage, and no suspects were identified. Two janitors suffered minor injuries. Wait! I guess there were people in there. I assumed it would be empty. The janitors were treated for smoke inhalation and minor burns and released. This newly added element had never occurred to me before — human destruction? To hurt a person or take a life? More to think about and more confusion.

“What happened to your hand?” Mom screeched, noticing the bandage I had put on my powder rash.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I scrambled. “My car overheated, and I burned it trying to remove the radiator cap.”

“You should be more careful,” she said. “Should you go to see a doctor?”

“Nah, it doesn’t even hurt.” I lied.

I don’t know if I was becoming a pain freak, if I was still into the distraction, or if I had become accustomed to the constant throb, but it felt good to me.

I suddenly had to get out of there, not because my parents were bugging me but because I was freaking myself out. I ran out so fast that Dad didn’t even have time to question it. I had to get out of there, but I had no idea where to go or what to do. I got in my car and stood on the throttle. There was too much crap in my head. I drove as fast as possible but couldn’t drive it out.

My hand, the fires, destruction, hate, injury, recognition, and death. This fire was recognised, but that wasn’t satisfactory enough. My hand was killing me, but I didn’t seem to mind. There was no way the last fire could have been better, but still, I found no satisfaction in it. Hate — how was I supposed to deal with all this hate? I couldn’t even think straight with the pain in my hand. It wasn’t the pain that was killing my concentration. It was the fact that the pain didn’t seem to bother me.

Death…

Did I have to kill to satisfy? Was that it?

Fuck! I hated Dr. Ray. Fuck! My hand was killing me.

​

Chapter Five - How Things Burn

My room suddenly came into view. I had just landed on my bed from a long fall. I could still feel my bed bouncing from the impact. My eyes were wide open, but I couldn’t see a thing because all my attention was stolen by the whisper in my head.

“This is wrong… Don’t do it.” I strained to understand. It seemed a bit louder. “If you hate yourself, then all your judgment is fucked… You’re the problem.”

In that instant, the time it takes for a small igniter to become an immense fireball… I understood.

I used to try to hold on to my sanity. I would use music, friends, fantasy, and other distractions. At times, all I had was pure effort and willpower. I was doing pretty well. Then, in a weakness, I asked, “Why?” A minute later, I knew it was over: floodgates torn from their hinges, and I had given in to lunacy. Ever since surrendering, I have felt better… until now.

The voice went from a whisper to a mind-ripping scream.

“Get help! Put a stop to this mass destruction of innocent people.”

I didn’t think about the radical changes happening. I didn’t know the origin of the new voice. The urgency swept me away; that was all I could think.

I jumped out of bed, still wearing nothing but the shorts I’d been sleeping in, and ran out to my car. It was about three a.m.
 

There’s still time.

It was dark as hell, and the roads were soulless. I ran red lights and ignored speed limits, driving as fast as possible.

I thought of nothing but what the new voice in my head had said. Like a mantra, I repeated every word, hoping the voice’s words could heal.

The streetlights penetrated the darkness when I got downtown, but it still seemed like hell. Now, there were a few souls on the road, probably lost. There always seemed to be taillights in my rearview mirror.

When I arrived at the building, I crashed through the fragile security gate and drove straight to the rented van that I had transformed into a large-scale Molotov cocktail.

I had loaded the triggering device into the van first, so I started unloading all the stuff to get to it and disarm it. My hand hurt to the point where it was useless, and my nervous rush wasn’t helping either. I fumbled a few gas containers out and set them on the parking garage floor. One of these containers’ caps had come loose, and my awkwardness had made quite a mess of it.

Gasoline splashed out when I dropped it to the ground. It didn’t matter. Once I got to the trigger and turned it off, I could deal with all the other messes I’d made.

Just then, a car crashed through the wire fence and charged towards me at high speed. The car’s brakes locked, and it screeched to a halt about twenty feet from my volatile collection. The driver got out and walked calmly toward me. It distracts me from the most important task of my life.

When he got close enough to be distinguishable through the dream-like waves of gas fumes, I realised it was Dr Ray. I was surprised. He had a different air about him. He looked sure and confident. I didn’t care who it was or how they seemed. I welcomed any warm body that could help me move the gas containers out of the way.

“Hey, Dr. Ray! I’m glad you’re here! Could you give me a hand?”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Cole. I know what you’ve done,” he said in a voice I had never heard before.

It was a Vincent Price voice from a cheesy, fifties horror flick—the type of movie you laughed at even as you realised there was something eerie about the monologues, something hiding behind the words and the voice.

“I’m glad you’re here. I know this looks bad, but it’s not. I’ll explain later, but there is no time now. Could you please give me a hand?” I said. Our roles seemed to have switched. I felt like a cowering, hopeful puppy, and I had no idea what was happening behind his eyes. He was still calm.

“I’m putting a stop to this right now, Cole,” he said as he pulled out a large, black revolver.

“Dr Ray! No… I’m trying to fix it. I’m trying to stop it, I wear!” My plea fell on deaf ears. He was possessed.

“I started to piece together clues from the hints you were dropping. I got nervous, so I dug this out of my closet.” He gestured with the pistol. “I thought about calling the cops, but I didn’t have any solid evidence, and I wasn’t sure about doctor/client confidentiality laws, and I didn’t think I had time to consult my lawyer. I saw you in the building yesterday, which elevated my suspicions, and I’ve been following you.”

I tried to calm down. “Really, Dr. Ray, I’m trying to make it right. I need help. We can deal with that later. Please help me unload these canisters.”

He continued, unfazed. “All the times you tried to fuck with me, all the games you played, you think I didn’t know? Do you think you’re better than me and all the others? I’m tired of all the bullshit. None of you will ever fuck with me again. It’s all over now, Cole,” he said in that mellow Vincent Price voice. “You have given me a way to end it all without consequence, without repercussions. I’ll be a fucking hero.”

That was the last intelligible thing he said. He started screaming manically.

I screamed for help again, but I hadn’t gotten more than a handful of words out before the gun flashed and barked. It was deafening. I couldn’t hear anything but the miniature explosions that were sending the bullets down the barrel until the gun was empty. Then I listened to a combination of shots echoing through the garage like a faint memory, a massive ringing in my ears, and the vocal chord-ripping screams of a madman.

He wasn’t a great shot. He yanked the trigger with his eyes closed until the hammer fell on dead chambers. Most shots missed anything significant, but he’d been compelled to accomplish his task indirectly. The second or third shot hit one of the gas containers, splashed some fuel around, and emptied the container into a puddle on the cement. Then, a shot went through my right foot, immobilising me. I fell to the ground instantly, numb from the knee down. The last shot that mattered hit the ground and sparked, igniting the puddle. The garage was an inferno almost immediately. There was a wall of flame between Dr Ray and me. It was expanding quickly in all directions: towards Dr. Ray, towards the van, and towards me.

It was over.

I screamed at Dr Ray with little hope of at least keeping the building from demolition. “It was useless. His continuing scream blocked my words. I hated him still! He threw his empty gun at me through the flames. Then he turned and started running, apparently trying to escape, but the direction he was running in was not getting him any closer to that objective. He was still screaming when I gave up on him.

 

He spent what remained of his life screaming.

I gave up on everything, drenched in fuel, as the flames fast approached. The van may as well be a nuclear warhead, considering my proximity to it.

Death was rapidly closing the gap between it and me. That was certain. The only question was whether I would burn to death or be shredded.

The heat-soaked air burned in my throat. The garage was filled with thick, dirty, black smoke that erased souls. Flames were on the van and the gas containers now. It would not be long before all the explosives in the truck detonated. The heat was unbearable.

I felt a searing pain in my left leg, as intense as it was physically possible to withstand. I looked down and saw that most of my leg was actually on fire. The pain was brutal. It was blinding. I closed my eyes, and it felt like I’d been staring into the sun or the white light of a stick welder for way too long. I smelled gas, toxic smoke, and barbecue. The pain was blinding, yet there was something I could see through the pain… feel through the pain.

A calm came over me as I watched and smelled my flesh burning. I realised I was finally experiencing perfection… I was living in perfection. I was dying perfectly. My search was over. I had found what I had been looking for… satisfaction … self-destruction…

The perfect fire.

Looking back, I realised I had been screaming towards self-destruction since lighting my first fire.

I only wish I had the foresight to do something about it then, to save those around me and myself.

The last thing I heard was Dr Ray screaming like the madman he was. I looked at my scarred hands, my own hands, the bitter hands of destruction, but before I could shed my first regretful tear…

The explosives blew.
Then… as if in a dream…
Nothing…
I ceased to exist.

Epilogue

Cole’s parents occupied their regular positions in their breakfast routine, his mother at the stove and his father at the kitchen table, absorbed by the newspaper. The woman was, as always, delivering a dramatic monologue. “I’m serious! His car isn’t here, and he said nothing about staying elsewhere!” She sounded genuinely worried. “And he’s been acting strange lately…”

His father rattled his paper, still only half interested in his wife’s words.

The paper’s front-page headline was written in big, bold letters.

A late-night explosion and fire destroyed a downtown building. Thirty-seven dead. Terrorism suspected.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Cole’s father said. “He’s going through one of those rough growing-up stages. It happens to everyone. I think his therapy is helping, and I’ll spend some time with him this weekend.

 

We’ll talk.

 

He’ll be fine.”

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