Arsonist: The Little Girl.

“Tibby!” mother called, I hated the nickname. There was anger in her voice.
I fell to the floor & scrambled to take my socks off. I managed to pull them off, stood and stuff them into my PJ pockets. But she’d seen.
“What’s that?” she asked. Her old face was a twisted mess of wrinkled highways; too many years of smoking too many Camels. A puff of smoke billowed from her nose as she stared at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mama?”
“You were outside looking at that Charlie boy, again.  He’s nothing but trouble, Tibby,”
I shook my head quickly, “No, I.”
She rose two figures with a cancer-stick squeezed between two nicotine stains,
“Don’t you backtalk; don’t start, go to your room, and don't come down until I need you to cook me dinner, do you hear me?”
My mouth clamped shut as I sneaked past Mama to find the stairs.
"Do you hear me, I said!" momma shouted.
"YES... I heard you!" i screamed.
She ignored me, went to the living room, turned Oprah on, and poured herself another Smirnoff.
I ran to my room, and slammed the door shut, and took to staring out of my window. 
Charlie stood there looking at my letter, and my heart became all aflutter.  He was as handsome a young boy as I would ever be lucky to attract. He would understand me.
We shared something special.  I watched the clock and waited for night-fall.
The flames beckoned.

The End

23 comments about this story Feed