The Rescue

   Gas can in hand , Cynthia made her way back into the kitchen. Picking up a cookie form a plate of many that she had cooked for the girls return, she nibbled on it while unscrewing the lid to the can. Messily, she sloshed her perfectly clean counters, the floor and the entirety of the room wiht the harsh smelling liquid.

   She went through the entire house doing this, wasting 25 dollars worth of fuel on her newly upholstered sofa, the venetian hung that hung on the wall, the family photos.

   the tossed the can into the open door of the garage. Her pants legs were soaked, but all was well. Smiling, laughing even, she went into her bedroom and opened her dresser drawer. She had quit smoking a long time ago, but she still kept a pack around for dire emergencies. She opened the pack greedily, tossing the wrappings on the floor. Underneath her socks she found a booklet of matches.

   The fumes here already making her woozy. Cynthia crossed the carpet, making tiny little squishing noises as she went. Humming that old 80's tune that made her blood boil, she made her way to the master bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she saw what she had missed for so long.

  She was never meant for the wifey lifestyle. Home, kids, cooking and cleaning. That was so drab. She missed her wild days, the nights where she would stay out late, drink, smoke, sleep with whoever she wanted and be queen of the night.

   Cynthia let her hair out of her pony tail and she shook her head. Opening a drawer to the bathroom, she pulled out a makeup case. She only wore neutral colours now, but things were changing. She painted her face meticulously, as if she were going out again on a saturday night in 1984. Purple and silver eyeshadow, black eyliner with little cat-eye flicks at the end, the deepest rouge on her lips.

   When she was done, she looked almost 19 again. Cynthia smiled coyly at herself, placing her hands on her hips. Life was grand. She put the long awaited cigarrette in her mouth and struck a match. Lighting the end of the fag, she took a long drag, held it, and exhaled wiht giggles of extasy.

   'What are you doing?!'

   She stopped. "What am I doing?" She looked in the mirror again. "This isn't me! What have I done to my house? Oh my beautiful home!"

    'There was no turning back now. You will never be able to clean the place up in time, you might as well go on with our original plan."

   "But the kids! And Ryan! I love them all so much, why are we doing this to them?"

    'Because they never made you as happy as you were back then. You deserve this. We deserve this."

   Cynthia was silent. 'Maybe,' she thought. It was true. This was the only way that she could be happy. She had to burn the house, otherwise, the famliy would think that she just left. It would be better for them to believe that she just died in a horrible accident. The house insurance covered fire damages anyway. This was her only rescue.

    The food was still in the stove, that was a good part of the plan.

   'Let's just go back in the kitchen, start the fire, and go away.'

    She obeyed the voices in her head. Stoicly, Cynthia walked to the kitchen, lit a match, and tossed it towards the oven. Fire started immeadiately and spread a bright blue across the entire room.

  She ran outside and around to the garage.

   'No! We can't take a car, if the find it missing, they will have known you took off. Through the woods to the other side of the lake. Now!'

   Panting, her hair and sleeves catching on the treelimbs, Cynthia ran. 

The End

1 comment about this story Feed