Prologue
I can feel the burning inside of me. I know that the only way to seek release is through the flames; they are my salvation and my subjugator. Life is too difficult for me. The anger just builds and builds, until my body cannot take it and I must seek release. No, it is not my body that seeks discharge- it is my soul. There is a crying inside of me. My very being feels scared, incomplete. The anticipation of the combustion is magnificent, for it is the only thing that seems to free my torment. I can almost feel the inferno before it is ignited. I can imagine every spark, every flame. They are as familiar to me as breathing is to everyone else. They are my liberators, and I am enslaved to them, totally and completely. I am chained to their lure and they to me. We are one, and I am terrified that this will always be. My liberator is my destroyer. And yet as scared as I maintain to you, I also anticipate the flames, for the feeling is beyond bliss when they arrive.
When I look back over my life, I must have always had this need. I remember glimpses of it when I was just a child. I remember staring into the fireplace, mesmerized by the power. Until recently, I was able to exert control, put it aside and lock the need away. Nobody understands the effort that it takes, the internal strength I must expend daily to keep the beast hidden. Others seem to easily flow through daily routine, paying attention to the trivialities that control their lives, while I always have to be aware, always be vigilant. It is like continually having a smoldering, pounding toothache. The emptiness never leaves, no freedom, no medication to dull its intensity, only the flames.
When I was young I could burn my skin to relieve the tension. Feeling the scribing would divert my anger, satisfy the need. But recently... I must admit my weakness…my control has wavered. As I grow older, my domination has become more tenuous. I am slipping. I can’t decide if the enjoyment of the flames had just peaked my voyeurism to the point that I must have it. The need seems to gain momentum as I age. It grows, like a bastard child within my womb, terrorizing me from within, pounding at my temples until, yes, I set the beautiful fire.
It has been some time since I have felt the need to see the pyre in a bedroom. I have satisfied my inner cravings with other, smaller fires, falsely believing that they would quench the thirst; but now I am beyond volitional control, I need this conflagration. I have known for days that it has become unavoidable, and I have barely been able to fight the fury. But it has been consuming more and more energy until it eventually leads me to this solution. The fire will cleanse me again, and I will be able to regain control over this internal dragon.
The bedroom is crucial. If I can pile enough of those filthy male clothes on the bed it will dampen my vengeance. It is this retribution that I live for, because a male act has left me unwholesome and bleeding within. The forcing of the male genital upon me has left me damaged. You think me weak for this; you think this is just an act of ritual, making believe. But this is not illusion. This is not ceremony for the sake of seeking forgiveness. This is vengeance. I can picture his pain as the smoke rises to the ceiling. The flames enhance my pleasure and my body begins to shake uncontrollably until it spasms in orgasm. But it is far more satisfying then any sexual orgasm can be, for that pleasure is fleeting. This is an emotional orgasm. This feeling is one of rejuvenation, of transformation. I become whole again, I renew my existence.
As I stand here in the darkness of the empty room, I can feel the surging need building within me. I can feel the urges, the need pulling at my soul. The anticipation of the culmination, that second when the volcanic flames shoot up to the ceiling. My body explodes at this vision. It is worth life itself. I can stand, transfixed, unaware of anything except the smell of the smoke and the warmth of the rage both inside and outside of my corporeal body.
I hope I have piled enough despicable clothes on the bed. It is important that they smell male, musky, for I can remember the smell suffocating me as a child. They must smell stale, and if they are moist it is even better. So I must have underclothes. The flames will eradicate the smell, abolish the shame, and purge the damage, at least for now!!!
I can feel my hand searching for the lighter fluid. I know I put it in my pocket, I know it is there. A sense of satisfaction overcomes me when my hand identifies the cool metal of the can. It doesn’t take much fluid to start the fire, but it must be spread over the clothes in an even, systematic pattern. The smell of the fluid excites me, and I will try to delay the ignition as long as possible to revel in this bliss.
Ah, it is time to burn, I will stay with the flames as long as I can.
