Open Fire - Runner Up

Thinking back, the amount of lighter fluid may have been a mistake. But everything’s obvious in hindsight.
If she’d had someone to share it with, the makeshift bonfire might actually have been quite romantic. The warm glow. The woody scent of smoke on the breeze. The soft, satisfying crackle of his most prized possessions burning. Wonderful.
But alone? At eleven thirty on New Year’s Eve? It wasn’t quite dismal. A little bleak perhaps. Certainly, it was far from the worst new years eve she’d ever had. It was unfortunate. Was that the word?
Long gone were the plans of a civilised if slightly dull games night with the gang. Cheese and nibbles and self indulgent yet righteous resolutions. A glass of champagne at midnight. That was the obligatory New Year’s plan on the wrong side of thirty, wasn’t it? The mature thing to do. After all, they were adults now and had outgrown their days of wild and reckless behaviour. Or so they said.
No, it wasn’t the worst New Years Eve to date. It was a shame that couldn’t be said for the rest of the year. Twelve months of hell was accurate.
Starting with the cat. Oh the cat. Adopted as a kitten and loved and cherished and showered with treats day in, day out for nine beautiful years.
They’d made the decision to get him relatively early on in their relationship as she remembered. Now that was reckless behaviour. A cat would be lovely. What a perfect family of three they would make! In the throes of young love; a new romance destined to last forever. That’s just what you do. Fall in love. Move in together. Get a cat. Live happily ever after. That’s just what you do for fuck’s sake. It’s not hard, is it?
He wasn’t dead, the cat. God no. His death would have been a far easier pill to swallow. No, he moved out. Next door. He moved next door. Bored of his perfectly fine life in number fourteen, one day he simply upped and left. And sat and stared at her from the upstairs window of number twelve.
Goading her. He was definitely goading her. Taunting her at every opportunity. Now she couldn’t even take out the bins without being reminded of the fact that she wasn’t good enough. What did I ever do wrong?! His loss anyway. She knew for a fact number twelve was vegan. Your days of tuna and slithers of steak are over pal.
Still, there was no denying, it definitely stung.
And now, here she was, under the stars in the back garden they had all once shared. Utilising some vague memory of camp fire building from her girl guiding days. Although, as she recalled, they hadn’t burnt quite so many photos back then. She had forgotten the basics of arranging the tinder but kindling was optional when you had a polyester-filled cat bed to throw on.
Perhaps it was the fourth glass of whiskey, but that heat was terrific now. There was something wonderfully meditative about the crackle of an open fire. Something mesmerising about the leaping flames. She could watch it all night. The way it danced and licked and crept along the fence.
Ah breathe it in, the beautiful outdoors. The vast night sky. The thickening, black plumes of smoke. Shallow breaths maybe. Stay low.
It was nice to have something else to focus on, even if only for a short while. Compared to what could only be described as a growing inferno, everything else suddenly felt almost insignificant. For a brief moment. What a joy to just let go of it all. Was it letting go or putting an end to it? She wasn’t sure but gosh, that sycamore sure went up quick.
Yes, the cat moving on. Then the prang in the car. Then the car written off. Briefly followed by the day she had replied ‘you too!’ to the bus driver when he’d grunted to take the ticket. Somewhat trivial but noteworthy. The burst pipe and the bathroom flooding. Her mum’s diagnosis. That was stark. It was possibly that which had led to the verbal warning at work. She had found herself getting just ever so short with everybody. Still, she wasn’t sure it could excuse the written warning. There is really no excuse for slapping your (albeit highly irritating) co-worker. That’s what they said anyway.
She had written it all down on a scrap of paper. Each and every unpleasant happening; from the vaguely humiliating to the utterly devastating. And then she had thrown it on and watched through stinging eyes as the edges began to curl in the heat and it disintegrated into nothing. Some kind of obvious and depressing metaphor for her life now.
Be more impulsive. Wasn’t that what he’d told her? Something about the relationship lacking spontaneity. He needed some excitement in his life. Hadn’t he rambled on and on about the boredom in the same old routine and conversations and weekdays and weekends? They had just been together too long; they had become too comfortable. Apparently. She had never before realised that comfortable was a negative. It was a little ironic that he had spent three separate Sundays in DFS last year trialling every sofa. Things just don’t get much more simultaneously tedious and yet comfortable than that.
Is this impulsive enough for you? It certainly wasn’t what you’d call humdrum.
It was spectacular now; the fire. Although, she had to admit that the speed with which it had taken off had been something of a shock. She had been damn proud of that pergola last summer. Oh the compliments it had received! It was collateral damage now as the flames took over, engulfing everything they reached in mere seconds. She had totally lost control, there was no going back. Not that she wanted to of course. It was far too late for any kind of rationality.
It had been awfully clumsy to spill that butane over next door’s patio furniture. The fumes alone could kill a guy. Hopefully.
And so then, finally, the cherry on top of the shit covered cake. He left. Had he followed the cat or was it vice versa? The best part of a decade together and he just left. The best years of her life and he just left. The best sofa money could buy and he just couldn’t leave it behind. Bloody hypocrite.
Of course, it had to be said that he didn’t have far to carry it.
She’s vegan for fuck’s sake! This, the man who had replaced ‘oh Christmas tree’ with ‘oh camembert’ and sang it every day in December. On Christmas morning you’d finished the Foie Gras before breakfast for crying out loud. Madness. Utter madness.
Maybe it had been obvious to everyone but her. It certainly explained a lot. The obscene amount of packages mistakenly left at number twelve. His sudden desire for a neighbourhood watch group consisting of only him and, coincidentally, number twelve. In hindsight, that should have been the giveaway. Well, people are busy nowadays. They have very little time to commit to bi-monthly meetings.
She hadn’t known.
He was there tonight though, she knew that much. She had heard muffled voices through the wall. His laugh was unmistakable. Then she had happened to catch a glimpse of them through the window while she had been crouching in the garden trying to catch a glimpse of them through the window. Of course it had hurt. Glugging red wine and demolishing a charcuterie board. Geez, talk about predictable. Was this the excitement he had been craving so much? Plot twist, this mezze has neither meat nor cheese. Thrilling.
So there they were. A cosy night in at number twelve. It was simply too good of an opportunity to miss. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Three if you included the treacherous cat.
She could hear the sirens even over the first fireworks. At least two, maybe even three closing in now.
Yes, the lighter fluid had been a mistake. That’s what she would tell the police anyway. Would they buy it? God no. This wasn’t an episode of The Bill. But she had come to realise that she just didn’t care anymore. The line of sanity had been crossed a long time ago. At approximately ten past eleven if she had to put a time on it. She had no care or concern for herself because there was nothing to be concerned for. There was absolutely nothing else to lose.
She thought of Big Ben chiming dutifully as she held her own hands and began to hum the tune of Auld Lang Syne. No, I’ve definitely had worse New Year’s Eves. Surely.
It was terrifying now. Far from wonderful, the heat was blistering. The smoke was all consuming. Both houses ablaze and raging with a fury she could feel.
Perhaps this would be her Phoenix moment. The beginning of a new life as she rose from the ashes of her trials and tribulations. It was a new year after all. A fresh start. She had burst into flames (and, admittedly, lost her mind a little) but now she would emerge from this hell a stronger, wiser and somewhat more reasonable person. There may even have been an uplifting quote in there somewhere. What really mattered most was how well she walked through this fire. Or something.
It was a nice thought. In a world of no repercussions. It would have been a nicer thought to have had an hour or so ago.
Perhaps they would all laugh about this night together in years to come; the anecdote she had told a hundred times but please do tell us again! Perhaps she would land her dream job and Mum would be ok and he would realise that she was most definitely wild and impulsive after all.
But, then again, everything’s obvious in hindsight.
Perhaps if she hadn’t used so much lighter fluid.