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Mickey's Home

Mickey spat on the yard in front of him; coming here might have been a mistake, but he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t follow through. The smell of dry grass in the nearby field mixed with the mold of abandoned houses surrounding him. The memories of this village sent shudders through his soul.

Pulling the lighter out of his pocket, he walked confidently over to the collapsing frame of the nearest home. His childhood screamed from the inside of that place, as he saw images of all that had happened to him. Spending his years taking his rage out on others had led him to great success in the business world, but following through here…that would lead to everyone knowing, and his reputation destroyed. He shrugged and grunted, “Ah well,” as he flicked the lighter open. Expecting to see bright flame, he saw nothing. The damn thing chose at this moment to be out of fluid.

It had to be the old-fashioned way then. Fine. Mickey grabbed a handful of straw and some dry wood, then set to making a fire against the wall of the old house. It caught quickly and, to his great satisfaction, immediately spread to the surrounding area. Mickey walked away to watch from a nearby hill as the entire village lit up. He smiled as the fire trucks came too late, and happily let the police attach the cuffs. He was free. He didn’t have to be that person any more.

Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash

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