Without a word, I uncap the gas can and pace to the other end of the room, making sure to keep a wide berth. When I tilt the can and allow a small amount of gasoline to splash into the carpet, his eyes widen.
“Okay, okay, wait!MaybeI used some of the money for myself, but I swear I meant to put it back into the church once I was more financially stable.”
“And how did you convince these people to sign their assets over?”
He swallows hard. “I—I told them it was God’s will. That they could do more good by helping the church than holding onto material possessions. That this would benefit the whole community. Most of them were older and easy to convince.”
Another part of the article I’d read about him flashes through my mind.
“I also saw a statement from a young woman saying she went to you for help about her abusive parents years ago, and that you brushed it off. What was that all about?”
He stammers, trying to come up with an excuse that won’t incriminate him further. “I—I don’t know. Her parents were good people, helped out at community events, and I just… I thought she was exaggerating, I don’t know.”
My stomach twists. “For someone who’s supposed to stand up for what’s right, you’re kind of a coward.”
He ignores my statement. “You won’t get away with this. People will find out.”
I shrug. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Please, just let me go. I’ll do better, I promise.” He’s getting desperate now, clearly troubled by the level of disgust and lack of pity in my eyes.
“Anything else to confess?” I ask, ignoring his pleas. “I have a feeling you’ll be meeting your creator very soon.”
He lunges toward me. I step back, easily avoiding his grip, and he cries out in pain as the handcuffs dig into his ankle.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he begs. “God will forgive both of us for our sins. Please don’t give into temptation.”
“God might forgive you, but I won’t.” And if judgement day comes for me, I’m already screwed. May as well make the most of it.
I step as close to him as I can without being in his reach and splash the gasoline across his desk, watching it splatter across his button-down as he attempts to shield himself with his forearm. Still, he coughs and spits as some gets into his mouth.
I walk across the room toward the door and my matchbook, trying to keep as much distance between us as possible in the small space. The pastor is still struggling, attempting to lift the desk to no avail. But before I can register what he’s doing, something flies through the air. The textbook he’d ripped from the bookshelf strikes my head, hard and heavy, and I stumble.
He takes the opportunity, managing to lunge toward me and catch the edge of my shirt. I stumble again, and he yanks my arm backward at an odd angle with his fingers digging into my skin. A sharp flash of pain shoots through my shoulder, and I cry out just before he snags a handful of my hair and yanks it down, smashing my head into the desk. A heavy ache blooms behind my forehead, and the room spins. I barely manage to twist out of his grasp, though strands of hair rip from my scalp in the process, and I flatten myself against the wall, out of his reach.
He's desperate now, a cornered animal fighting for its life. He swipes at the bookshelf again, hurling books at me in an attempt to slow me down or incapacitate me. I use my good arm to block them as much as possible, the other one hanging limp at my side.
The sharp corner of one hardcover grazes my cheek, and the sting is immediate. Warm blood trickles down my face, but I don’t have time to worry about it.
I’m at the door now, matchsticks in hand, ducking his frenzied throws.
His eyes widen in terror as I open the office door, take one step backward, and light a match.
“No, no, no, please,” he begs.
Deep down, I know I should feel some sort of hesitation, but much like the incident with the bartender, I’m consumed by the need for justice after discovering how many people he’s wronged. Maybe he’s done good in his life as well, mentored those who needed it and guided them down better paths. But unfortunately for him, that doesn’t matter to me right now.
I’ve now become judge, jury, and executioner, and I’ve decided he deserves to die.
Maybe it’s extreme, maybe I’m completely fucked in the head, but it’s too late to go back now.
“What’s that phrase?” I mutter. “Baptism by fire?”
I toss the match onto the desk, and the wooden top ignites in a whoosh of flames. In an instant, the pastor’s shirt is burning, the flames licking up his torso and around his neck.
His screams pierce the air, and I shut the door between us. I don’t know how close I have to be to him in order to absorb his life, but I don’t want to take my chances by leaving the building before it happens. Light from the backdoor filters through the glass at the end of the hallway, so I have a clear escape route.
Despite my lack of guilt at killing this man, the sounds of his tortured screams make my stomach roll. His death shouldn’t take long, but the seconds pass agonizingly slowly when each of them is filled with the knowledge that I’m burning a man alive.
