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Fire was seducing to him. Of all the pleasures and gratifications in this world, he had yet to find anything as arousing as the ignition of a flame.
The hiss of the match as it stuck.
The wisp of smoke emitted from the infantile glow.
The flicker of life as the spark began to grow, slowly at first.
It's descent; down down, down, the match.
That moment, when his heart would beat desperately against his ribs as the flame kissed his fingers.
And then it would perish. Extinguished as quickly as it had been ignited.
But sometimes, it didn't die. He wouldn't let it. He would drop the flickering match to the floor and watch it spin, once twice. The flame would spit and sputter, sometimes too weak to survive. And sometimes just strong enough. It would grab the edges of its prey, hungry, ravenous, and it would devour it, growing strong off its newfound parasitic relationship.
Sometimes he was careless.
The first true act of arson he committed, one without premeditation or cause, had almost been his last. He had picked the house because it was ugly to him. It had no meaning, no value. He didn't know whom it belonged to or what was inside. But he could just picture the flames climbing up the white walls, consuming the red drapes, claiming the building as it's own. And once he had envisioned it, he couldn't get it out of his head.
His first time was sloppy. There really was no planning, thought, or scheme. He waited until all the cars were gone and he walked right up to the front door.
He didn't even have to pick the lock; the key was under the doormat.
Despite the romance of a trespasser walking untouched through the halls of someone else's house, he didn't have time to relish or enjoy the feeling. His fingers itched to strike the match, to watch it feed and grow, to nurse it and care for it.
He almost didn't make it out. The sight was so hypnotic. He seemed to be possessed by it, to watch the small flicker of life he had created grow and grow until it no longer called anyone master, it was intoxicating.
So transfixed by his creation, he hadn't realized the eminence of destruction in his wake. Too quickly did the pleasant burn of heat against his cheeks turn into white hot, blistering tongues of flame. The house creaked under fragile foundation and black smoke choked his lungs. He snapped out of his trance by the realization that he couldn't breath and his fight for oxygen reminded him that he still wanted that fight.
He had stumbled out of the house, getting continuously lost in the labyrinth of flames and dead ends. Finding himself trapped against the blackened corners of a small room, he had resigned and was ready to give in, to call the flames his master. But just as his heavy lids closed, his eyes burning beneath the acrid smoke, heavy hands reached beneath him and pulled him free.
"Son! Son! Are you are alright, kid?"
He barely registered the loud voices, the blaring sirens, or the gathering crowd.
"Thank God. This one's alive! He may need some oxygen though!"
But before that fireman could find out what exactly that strange boy was doing in someone else's house, he was gone.
Yes, his first act of arson was nearly his last. But he had learned his lesson. He had found those with similer passions as him. They had given him purpose and taught him everything he knew. It wasn't child's play anymore. It wasn't a game, it was war.
And this was what Count Olaf was thinking as he dropped that match, so close to her death, onto the floor of the Baudelaire Mansion.