Silence stabs at the air. The lull of night and darkness gives the comfort of safety.
The door creaks open as if a ghost pushed it. Out steps a shadow. He is no monster, no villain, no.
He is just a mere boy.
None of the stairs creak, he knows which to avoid. A haunting grace, captured from years of damnation, flows through his steps. Fingers grasp at the canister in his hand.
Gasoline.
They are his personal demons of torment. Sent to destroy him. They don’t deserve to live. Not when they didn’t.
A shuttering sound of a drawer being pulled shoves away any thought of turning back.
Drip
Drip
Drip
They will wish they had never burned him in this hell.
The match is lit and the trail has turned to hellfire.
Screams of the damned, the tortured, villainous, the heinous scum of the Earth.
A young boy with vibrant green eyes sits upon a trunk, upon his shoulder is an owl as white as winter. The flames of hell dance in his eyes, lights in the distance. As he licks his lips he can almost taste the satisfaction, yet he definitely tastes the ash.