[Fic] Won't Be Held Responsible
She found them in the cupboard, her tear-stained hands shaking as she picked up the thin box and heard the rattling of thin sticks inside. She was six, she was smart, and she was angry at Timmy Reese for saying her daddy hated her so much he left. Carefully she pushed the cover off of the box and with nimble fingers pulled one long match out.
"Never play with fire," the fireman had said at school, but Kiki wasn't playing. She wasn't sure how she was going to do it, but she was out for revenge.
She took them to the backyard, knelt on the concrete of the driveway and shakily closed the box, then slid the match across the side like she ahd seen her mother do when lighting candles before meditation. The first one didn't light at all--a dud, she figured, or maybe she wasn't pressing hard enough. The second one broke--from pressing too hard, certainly. The third one lit and in surprise, Kiki dropped it and it went out.
The fourth one, however, lit perfectly and this time Kiki was ready. She watched as the blue flame made the wooden match shrivel and blacken, until it burned too long and hit her fingers. She hissed and dropped the flaming match to the ground, slipping her fingers into her mouth as she watched it burn out. That hurt. Fire hurt. She picked up the box and lit another, letting it burn once again to her fingers. It still hurt, but Kiki couldn't tell if that was from the matches she had burned before, or if it was something new.
Her reddened fingers whitened into blisters as match after match was lit and then burned out, one by one, until the matches were all gone and every thudding beat of her heart sent shooting stars of pain into her hands and she couldn't seem to stop shaking.
Her mother never scolded her--never said much of anything, even when Kiki admitted to lighting all the matches herself. INstead, pictures of vast forest fires seemed to appear magically on her desk, one above a newspaper article from years before she had been born, describing the valient efforts of a local group who had helped the firefighters put out the fires. The article said that some woman had been burned--a woman with her mother's name, a woman who must have had an identical shiny burn scar on her arm.
Fire was bad, Kiki finally realized one night, her bandaged hands surrounded by ice that wasn't stopping the pounding pain. Fire destroyed homes, trees, people. Fire was bad and Kiki had dabbled in it--she had toyed with the dark side. She was Kiki the destroyer.
She cried herself to sleep long after the throbbing faded away.
Muse: Kiki Monroe
Word count: 432 words
Prompt: playing with matches--for allfireburns
"Never play with fire," the fireman had said at school, but Kiki wasn't playing. She wasn't sure how she was going to do it, but she was out for revenge.
She took them to the backyard, knelt on the concrete of the driveway and shakily closed the box, then slid the match across the side like she ahd seen her mother do when lighting candles before meditation. The first one didn't light at all--a dud, she figured, or maybe she wasn't pressing hard enough. The second one broke--from pressing too hard, certainly. The third one lit and in surprise, Kiki dropped it and it went out.
The fourth one, however, lit perfectly and this time Kiki was ready. She watched as the blue flame made the wooden match shrivel and blacken, until it burned too long and hit her fingers. She hissed and dropped the flaming match to the ground, slipping her fingers into her mouth as she watched it burn out. That hurt. Fire hurt. She picked up the box and lit another, letting it burn once again to her fingers. It still hurt, but Kiki couldn't tell if that was from the matches she had burned before, or if it was something new.
Her reddened fingers whitened into blisters as match after match was lit and then burned out, one by one, until the matches were all gone and every thudding beat of her heart sent shooting stars of pain into her hands and she couldn't seem to stop shaking.
Her mother never scolded her--never said much of anything, even when Kiki admitted to lighting all the matches herself. INstead, pictures of vast forest fires seemed to appear magically on her desk, one above a newspaper article from years before she had been born, describing the valient efforts of a local group who had helped the firefighters put out the fires. The article said that some woman had been burned--a woman with her mother's name, a woman who must have had an identical shiny burn scar on her arm.
Fire was bad, Kiki finally realized one night, her bandaged hands surrounded by ice that wasn't stopping the pounding pain. Fire destroyed homes, trees, people. Fire was bad and Kiki had dabbled in it--she had toyed with the dark side. She was Kiki the destroyer.
She cried herself to sleep long after the throbbing faded away.
Muse: Kiki Monroe
Word count: 432 words
Prompt: playing with matches--for allfireburns