The First Fire: A Tale of Passion

I think I was mad at a ex when I wrote this. Most of my early writing seems to stem from some sort of longing or irritation at females. I was really into girls. As I look back on this first tale, I think it was trying to portray a life not worth living. A life lived with someone who hates you seems to be worse than death to me, but some people still get up and face them day after day. 

Focus

“Margaret died,” she told him in the early morning before the prospect of a long and unfulfilling day had reached his mind.

“Who’s Margaret?" He asked, before realizing that is not the safest choice of words after hearing that someone is dead.

“Margaret was my sister, you fucking asshole!”

Her face was a bright red now as she stormed away from their pleasant little breakfast nook inside their pleasant little home that they lived in.

It was how most mornings went with those two. Usually it took about four or five sentences before one of them was called an asshole. 

The conversations used to be nice and contrite, as though they were still dating or getting to know each other. 

Those days were long past.

He could hear and feel the doors slamming upstairs, a sign of anger that would probably last only about three days if he tried. He gave up trying years ago.

Taking a deep sigh of preparation, he knew that this might be it. This might be the final fight that causes her to divorce him. He hoped to at least keep the house.

“I know you remember Margaret because you were always trying to fuck her!” She yelled from the top of the stairs as the bedroom door slammed.

He really didn't want to, he thought of Margaret as a dumpy girl with a nice, fat ass, but nothing of substance to warrant trying to bang her. 

More trouble than it was worth in his opinion. If he was going to fuck someone else, she had better be prettier, younger, richer, or a combination of those three. The fights weren't worth an ugly woman.

“I’ll see you after work, probably around six”, he yelled to the top of the stairs, not giving a flying fuck if she heard him or not.

The glass lamp she threw out of the second story window onto the driveway in front of his 2010 Ford Focus told him that she did hear him and that she cared about as much as he did. Maybe a bit more, but only in spite.

As he peeled out in reverse and then spun out the tires forward on the grass, he wondered if this was really worth it.

Maybe two funerals would be better.

His foot gunned the gas down and slammed the front end of his 2010 Ford Focus into the side of a school bus attempting to turn in front him at the light.

That last thing he heard before the smoke burned his lungs to the point of asphyxiation was the screaming children who were peering down from their shattered windows into his smashed remains.

They would remember this, he thought as his body gave up trying to live and let him slip into peaceful remiss.

* * *

She really didn’t care. At first.

She began to miss that car.

And him, with his petty little ways.

For now the only focus she had was on getting ready to meet up with Margaret's widowed husband, her brother-in-law.

Now they had no reason to hide it. And that would kill their passion and slip back into being the same miserable, life-ruining people they had always been.

And someone would die. Again.