Ash

The fire spread through my mind, faster than it was spreading through the house.  Neurons flared, pathways burned, and I watched the destruction wrought by my own hands.  I talked softly to myself; the plan was proceeding as - well, as planned.


In my hand was the crystal chalice she had given me for our fifteenth anniversary.  A cocktail of barbiturates, methadone, and absinthe glimmered softly, the liquid swirling lazily inside the glass as I rocked from side to side.  I hummed our song gently, and took another sip of my drink.  She looked so serene.


Flames danced in my eyes.  The fire had really taken hold now, floor and furniture ablaze.  I winced slightly as I heard the first crack of supporting beams but watched the ceiling fall in, bringing down the contents of the room above and showering me in sparks.  I took one last look at her face and left.


I took the back door, through the alley between houses, and began meandering along the road.  The night's darkness cradled me like a blanket while I stumbled forward.  At the end of my street I glanced back at the old house.  Flames danced in the windows, a sad ballet performed in tribute to the immolation of my home.  I continued onward, to the church.  Forgiveness awaited, perhaps.


I wandered through the graveyard and sat at the plot where her ashes lay.  From my pocket I pulled the now slightly charred photograph I'd held as I watched the fire, my fire, cremate the ghost of the life we once had.  The same photograph I'd held as her body was consigned to the flames eight years ago.


Before I lost the will, or the ability, I dispatched the contents of the chalice and lay my head on her grave.


[Original image by Davy Kelly http://www.davykelly.co.uk/2010/09/photographing-fire/]