Watching a man on fire was exhilarating. ‘
The flames started small, licking at the hem of his trousers like a predator testing its prey. His screams—raw, guttural, almost animalistic—ripped through the air, louder than the crackling inferno.
“You need help?”
He turned to my direction as the fire continued consuming him. He saw the fire extinguisher I waved in my arms. He ran towards me.
“Quick! Please!” His voice was hoarse, raw with fear and pain. His eyes, wide and frantic.
I smiled at the pathetic excuse of a man in front of me as I tried and failed to unhook the pin of the extinguisher.
“Sorry, I’m such a dumb bitch sometimes.”
The fire climbed higher, consuming the fabric of his clothes but not yet his flesh. He swatted at it uselessly, his hands blistering from the heat. “You have to do something! Don’t let me die like this!”
“So sorry, I’m just a dumb bitch.”
Recognition lit in his eyes. I saw the moment he knew who I was. The moment he regretted his earlier actions.
Please!” he shrieked, his voice raw with pain. “You don’t have to do this! Please!”
The fire crept higher, curling around his legs like a serpent. He groaned in agony, his body buckling but refusing to collapse. He gritted his teeth, his breath ragged. His skin was reddening now, patches of blistering flesh visible beneath the charred fabric of his clothes.
“Please!” he wailed, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry! I’ll do anything! Anything!”
His begging was melodious, a symphony of panic, desperation and a strong will to live. I tilted my head slightly, as if studying a piece of art.
The fire climbed higher, licking at his torso and arms, the heat so intense that I could feel it from where I stood. His screams turned into choked sobs, then incoherent gurgling as the flames consumed him entirely.
I waited until the fire began to die down. The clearing was quiet now. The man was nothing more than a blackened silhouette.
I inhaled deeply, the stench of smoke and charred flesh filling my lungs.
Maybe in his next life, he would learn to control his road rage and not needlessly call people names.
Mood before writing: I need carnage. I need to throw stuff. I need to break glass.
Mood after writing: why am I mad again? I feel better.
Writing is therapeutic guys!
I write this for the girl who wants to break everything but instead has to conform to societal standards.
this is so me each time a man just speaks to me
set him ablaze
would reference to this each time i need to set someone ablaze
thank you.
Wow, this was so satisfying
Maybe because I was picturing one vile being in my head burning to a crisp
Maybe this is therapeutic
Sitting still and letting my imagination run its course
You’re a gem