Rosyline had never thought she would be driving to Clortil’s Mental Institute on her first day of the job. And she definitely hadn’t thought she’d be working at Clortil’s Mental Institute, let alone a mental institution at all. Her car lurched onwards, the tires dipping into potholes as she drove, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel. The scenery around the road was so similar to the forests that often took up the settings of horror films - horror films she tried so hard to stay away from. Rosyline hadn’t thought she’d return here after she was discharged five years ago. She hadn’t wanted to return. She was close enough that she could see the building. It was stout, only two floors and quite wide. There were large double doors and the front and guards both around the buildings perimeter and the 12 foot wall that surrounded the building. She pulled up to the swirled front gates and stated her name and business to the speaker/camera. The gates unlocked and swung the opposite direction of her car. She drove slowly down a road with lamps lining the way, lighting her path. After a minute, her car was finally approaching the Institution itself, a large structure that looked like a mix between a gothic castle and a steampunk factory, dressed in white. It made her want to write. She parked her car and walked into the building, trying not to have a panic attack right there in the lobby, surrounded by possibly dangerous people. It was the smell, she told herself, as if the memories of her year here on the other side of the glass came rushing back. It was just the smell.

The first night Dill was here, she was raped by a guard. It soiled her entire being. Her confidence was diminished the way food was. A skinny frame, scarred and broken. But her fury only grew. Anger against the people imprisoning her here. Anger against the fire proof shackles that kept her fire from her skin. Anger against the people trying to stifle her, trying to put her out. She wanted to burn this wretched place to the ground. Every day was the same. Wake up. Change into different uncomfortable clothing. Stare at the ceiling. Eat breakfast. Stare at the ceiling of the lobby. Watch people try and fail to exercise. Brainstorm how to get back to her fire. Lunch. Stare at the ceiling. Play mind numbing games. Get interrogated by the Warden. Get interrogated by a therapist. Get interrogated by a reporter. Stare at the ceiling. Dinner. Paint some crap. Loath everything. Take meds. Bed. Dill hadn’t enjoyed a moment here. For waking up was a terrible start to her day and the food soured her mood further. And staring at the ceiling was quite boring. She couldn’t ever talk to the other patients because they were all insane. All of them. Dill watched the same popcorn ceiling she does every day, waiting for her escort, Kathleen, to pick her up and bring her to breakfast. Her room was bare, a twin bed with a light blue quilt, a small wooden side table with a lamp on it, a light blue rug, a near empty shelf, white walls. It looked like a hospital room, she thought. Though in a way, wasn’t it a hospital room? A room for the insane to be “treated”. Dill didn’t feel treated. She had stupid activities once every week, like electro shock therapy, painful tests, they would prod through her mind and memories, potions, medicine, sedatives, therapy. They changed nothing. She was trapped in this hellhole with other insane people. Though Dill didn’t feel insane. She just felt angry. So, so angry.

Dill had never meant to let everything get out of hand. She quite simply was just enjoying a bonfire. Until she felt the way the embers flourished in the air, the way the fire ate up the earth beneath it. It sucked the air from the atmosphere, the resources from the ones who started it. Then it was too much to ask of her to not do anything stupid. After that night, she lit matches and burned things for the thrill of it. And then she had a brilliant idea: She could burn herself, feel the fire the way she longed to. So she did, and with each scar came a bigger thrill, she hid them of course, but she created art with her skin. Designs snaked up her wrists, her arms, her collarbones. She thought them gorgeous, the pain a small price to pay. Until that price became too much, until the pain ignited something in her: rage. She was as angry as the blood that trickled down from the blistering skin. Angry as the words that spit from her mouth. Her anger and the flame were one. And when people whispered about her in the stores and salons, they couldn’t seem to escape the smoke. The smell of burning flesh was one of her favorites. But then one bit of revenge went too far. A simple cremation became a forest fire, then a full out town destroyed. And she did nothing. She felt nothing. The only thing she felt was the doctors trying to decide what was wrong with her. Not the burns scaling her body (they covered those) and not the burns scaling that marred her skin for eternity. They tried to tell her she was unstable, psychotic, or in blunter terms: insane. And Dill, she really didn’t like that. But she couldn’t do anything. They worked on her body, trying to remove the scars she worked so hard to create. They tried to return her art to the plain skin she had before. They didn’t succeed, not fully at least. She kept the scars. She was glad. But before she could avenge herself, she was tied down after the fire inside her killed only a few patients. Truly, she didn’t think it that bad. Apparently it was. They put her in a psychiatric facility. It was a jail for the ones they couldnt contain. Her hands always cuffed, her sleeves always long. Nobody knew her. Nobody knew what she did. A fresh forest to burn to the ground. She looked forward to it.