Stepping back, I checked my handiwork before moving toward the utility cupboard storing bleach and gasoline. The bleach had been for blood and the gasoline for the bonfires we’d occasionally had out here to cull a few trees.
Fighting the dregs of energy in my system, I poured the sharp smelling petrol over my father’s corpse, the rack, the floor, the very walls of the despicable barn.
Only once every item and inch of the place had been drenched did I strike the match.
Taking the camera and Cut’s last confession to a tree a safe distance away, I returned to stand by the doors and fling the sulphur rich flame onto the slick trail of gasoline.
Nothing happened.
The flames didn’t catch. They went out.
Fuck.
My hands shook hard as I struck another match—letting the fire chew some of the stick before tossing it to the glistening floor.
This one worked.
The sudden whoosh of heat and orange exploded into being, rippling along the liquid path I’d set, eagerly consuming the tinder I’d given.
The cold night warmed as I stood in the entry and let the fire take firmer root. I didn’t move as the crackle and singe of my father’s skin caught fire. The smell of human remains burning and the whiff of smoke didn’t chase me away.
I stayed vigil until the woods glowed red with heat and the air became thick with soot.
And still I stood there.
Smoke curled higher in the sky, blotting out the moon and stars.
I stood sentry like the oaks and pines, watching the fire slowly eat its way along the floor and walls, devouring everything in its fiery path, deleting the barn and its history.
Watching my father char to ash, I couldn’t fight the memories of what I’d done. Of the stretching and breaking and pain I’d delivered. I buckled over, vomiting on the threshold. The intensity of what I’d lived through suddenly crushed me. I had no reserves left to ignore it.
I’m sorry.
I’m not sorry.
He deserved it.
No one deserved that.
Stumbling away from the burning barn, I tripped and jogged through the forest to the lake where Nila had been strapped to the ducking stool. There, I fell to my knees, willing the past to fade.
My body purged itself. Daniel’s death. Cut’s death. My mother’s death. Kes’s coma. Jasmine’s disability. And Nila’s torture.
It’s all too much.
Even from my sanctuary by the water, I could still smell smoke. The aftertaste of my father burning coated my throat, and my eyes smarted with ash.
Throwing my head back, I glowered at the moon.
I’d never have another birthday where I feared the cake was laced with cyanide.
I’d never be sent back to the mental institute and kept prisoner in a straitjacket.
I’d never have to worry about Jasmine being tossed from the Hall and left to fend alone.
I’d never again bow to the wishes of a deranged family lineage.
I’m free.
