Heat

she went outside and felt a breath of cold air against her cheek. it was dark out, the pitch-black, can't-see-your-fingertips kind of dark. and it was cold. shivering, she wrapped her woolen shawl tightly around her bony shoulders. tonight was the night. she shut the door to her squatter home carefully. not that it mattered. after tonight, she wouldn't be able to come back. ever.

not that it mattered.

strange, you'd think living there for seven years would give her a sort of affection for the place. not one bit, she'd always wanted to get away from it. the shattered windows, the crumbling, grimy walls, being within centimeters of the neighbouring squatter...it all repulsed her. more so after her parents died, there had only been bittersweet memories of them lurking in every corner.

lava-like rage bubbled in her. this was her uncle's fault. at the age of seven, her rubber tycoon grandfather had suddenly died. a typed note was myseteriously found amongst his papers, stating that all his wealth was to be inherited by the elder of his two sons, Alistair Vasquez. her father, the younger of the two, and his entire family, were promptly turned out of the family mansion. having always lived under her grandfather's wing, they were practically penniless.

reduced to living in a slum beside the Venezuela city dump (a far cry from Grandfather's five-storey bungalow!), she was unable to continue her education and was made to peddle garlands in the town square. their family of three (her father, mother and herself) lived from hand to mouth for the next few years before her parents had died from the cholera outbreak the week before.

orphaned, uneducated and without a penny to her name, something had snapped in her. by the time she had buried her parents, she had convinced herself of a few things. one, her uncle had no doubt found a way to tamper with Grandfather's will and deny her father his rightful inheritance. two, if not for him their family would have continued to live a life of luxury. then, her parents would not have drunk the tainted water and...oh yes, her teenage mind had rejoiced a this opportunity to blame all her misfortunes on her uncle. still, though her mind was cloudy with grief and anger, one thing burned fiercely in her resolve: her uncle was the source of her suffering and she would see to it that he got his come-uppance. she knew what she must do.

she ghosted through the empty streets of Caracas. she knew the way by heart, how many times had she returned to stare mournfully at what could have been hers? she fingered her cloth bag. it contained only what she needed that night, the squatter has nothing else worth keeping. she stopped abruptly, she had arrived.

she took one last gaze at the sprawling mansion. by dawn, it would be no more. she began to work methodically, splashing kerosene on every visible entrance or exit to the mansion. then she lit them, one by one, like candles to a brithday cake. the fire spread rapidly, gleefully licking at the carpets and mahogany furniture. scream of terror soon filled the air, but died once the mansion's infrastructure began to crumble and the house began collapsing in on itself.

she stretched out a hand. although she was standing about eighty metres from the blazing furnace, the heat against her fingers was still intense. smiling slightly, she shrugged off her shawl. it had suddenly become a lot less cold.