The old house looked the same as she remembered. The same old floorboards cracked as she stepped on them, pouring down gasoline. B. Markson looked at her with those same eyes that featured in all of her nightmares. But she was not scared of him anymore.
She had known for a long time that Theodora had her father's eyes. But Theodora was gentle and friendly and funny. They also had the same freckles, and the same frown. B. was not gentle. He didn't care about anyone but himself.
There was a chance Theodora would never forgive her for what she was doing. She had tried to make her see who B. really was, but Theodora loved her father blindly.
Her friends had told her Theodora was too weak to see the truth, and they were right.
She would miss running her fingers through Theodora's hair, and the soft kisses that almost made her feel whole. That almost healed her scars.
B. shouted, trying to intimidate her into obedience, like he had done so many times. But he had no power over her anymore. She was breaking free from the chains that imprisoned her since he grabbed her ankles that fateful night.
She lit her lighter, the engraved eye pressing hard against her palm. She was feeling sadistic, so even if she had no need to do it this way, she felt a sick pleasure in approaching the flame to B.'s clothes. She watched his stern expression betray the pain as the fire found the way to his skin and his flesh. He screamed, he cursed, but she wasn't really listening.
Fire fascinated her. It was so powerful that it could turn even a weak girl like her into a warrior. It could even destroy someone like B. After it was done, nothing in that cursed house would remain recognizable. The room where she used to lock herself, the walls, the files, it would all be ashes. Irreparably destroyed.
She lit the puddles of gasoline, creating bigger flames that spread quickly as she made her way out. The smoke scent was strong, almost as strong as it still was in the remains of the place where she was born.
It was all already burned, everything that the organization considered disposable. It would take years until her and her friends would start using the name "firestarters". They were not the ones starting the fire.
But they were starting something, and she was proud of being a part of it.
A sign on the wall near the front door read "The world is quiet here". She stopped in front of it for a moment. She was done being quiet. She was done letting them do whatever they wanted. She was done being a good girl, a good volunteer, always quietly obeying.
She tore it down. She was ready to be loud like a roaring fire.