I could still hear the pattern.

/thump/ … /thump/ /thump/

Was it my heart? Or perhaps the ground against sneakers. It’s deaf under the—

/crackle/crackle/crackle/

I could still smell the incense.

It wasn’t very pleasant, but it was very strong. I covered my nostrils but I didn’t dare open my mouth either.

I could still taste the carbon.

The mucus fueling, charred debris could not be rubbed off my tongue. I kept trudging forward, my head down.

I could still feel the piercing.

It’s caught on to my clothes, my skin is now aflame. I fall forward, caught by my palms before I almost completely collapsed. There is a window in front of me.

I could still see him.

Holding the lighter, the gasoline on his other hand. I recognized him, and to recognize him was the worst of all betrayals. I could even imagine the face he had made as his chin tilted upwards the second floor.

The sounds of the snapping flames fueled his adrenaline.

The fumes of the combusting smoke fueled his disgust.

The taste of its bitter wood fueled his melancholy.

The heat wafting over his direction fueled his satisfaction.

But the eyes that had caught mine, sizing and resizing until his whole body stiffened up, the lighter breaking in a crack on the sidewalk and the open gasoline spilling into the dry grass, was his look of regret, panic. He had made a mistake.

This house was meant to burn down. I wasn’t supposed to collapse with it.

Today, I could not escape it. I am with the house. Tomorrow, the haunting memories he had lit to forget had now sparked a new burden.