She never really knew how these things started. The fireworks, the explosions, the bang and the blood and the adrenaline. One moment she was sitting and the next – the fire – she was the fire. She was the fire, she was on fire, she was aflame with the excitement of living.
Life was – is – an explosion. An explosion of sensory overstimulation, an explosion of the spiderweb of lives you touch, an explosion of self-expression. You never really lived unless you exploded, or so she thought.
Life only stopped when the fire died down, when the embers glowed and hushed, and when the smoke wafted away.
And when she realised what was going on, she was holding two guns, waiting as the night sky drained away her adrenaline. The night air was filled with the acrid smell of burning, and all around her, not a hint of life was lurking in the night – as if her one big bang had sucked in all the life there was and in one moment put everything out.
She shook gently, not out of excitement anymore but out of anticipation. She regarded the silhouette of the crumbling remains all around her, lit only by the dying fire.
Another home – destroyed.
She never really knew how these things ended, either.