Petrol.
Monty moves around the room with practiced efficiency, splashing liquid from a red canister onto the walls, the floor, Jake's still form.The fumes mix with the fentanyl in my system, making my already compromised breathing even more labored.
He's going to burn the evidence.
Burn us both and make it look like an accident.
"Two brothers, fuelled by a hatred that runs bone deep," Monty mutters as he works."Tragic, really.The fire probably started from a dropped cigarette, you still smoke don’t you Preppy?"
Then comes the scratch of a match, and suddenly the air erupts in orange light and heat and the hungry roar of flames consuming everything in their path.
The fire spreads with horrifying speed, racing up the walls like it’s alive, like it’s starving.The heat hits me in waves, each one sharper than the last, but I barely register it through the chemical numbness settling deep in my veins.
My nervous system is shot.Fried past the point of warning signals.Pain becomes a distant concept, something that happens to other people.
There you are,the Devil murmurs, soft as a breath against my ear.
I wondered how long you’d keep me locked up this time.
Smoke pours from the flames, thick and black and poisonous, rolling along the ceiling in dark rivers before sinking down into my lungs.
Every breath is heavier than the last.
Relax,the voice says.You don’t need oxygen where you’re going.
My respiratory system—already failing from the fentanyl—starts to shut down completely.Each inhale feels optional now, like my body’s forgetting the habit.
This is how it ends.
In fire.
In smoke.
In the taste of my own failure coating the back of my tongue.
Poetic, really,the Devil hums.You both going together.
The flames reach Jake first.
I force myself to watch, I don’t look away.
I won’t give myself that mercy.
If this is the price of my failure, I’ll pay it with my eyes open.The fire curls around his still body, dancing like it’s celebrating, like it finally won something it’s been chasing for years.
See?the voice whispers.You couldn’t save him then and you can’t save him now.At least you’re consistent.
I can’t tell if the wetness on my face is sweat or tears, they feel the same in this heat.The building groans around us, a deep, wounded sound, like it knows it’s dying too.
Beams crack, walls bow.
Soon the whole place will come down, burying us both in burning rubble.
Maybe that’s justice.
Maybe that’s balance.
Maybe,the Devil whispers,this is what atonement looks like for someone like you.
