A Delicate Art
Has anyone ever told you that Fire is a delicate art?
That's what they told me. I never knew what they meant, until I tried to make it. Then I realized that it wasn't only a delicate art – it was essential. It was the only thing that could keep me company in this cruel world. The only thing that I could really connect with.
Then I joined this volunteer organization – they worked with fire. True, they killed it as well, but I could live with it. It wasn't like I hadn't done it before . . . and I liked to kill. It was the way things . . .
What's this?
Oh, my. Lovely. Beatrice. . . .
I'll kill them all. That's what I'll do. But how . . .?
Come out, my little friend. The flame. The fire. The . . . ah . . .
I'll kill them all.
~*~
Beatrice? BEATRICE? What is that? What have I done? I've killed her. She's died, in the fire. What happened to me? I'm gone. Beatrice?
Snicket. I hate you. I HATE you, you impertinent example of idiocy! And you . . . and your . . . my fire . . . You KILLED IT!! I hate you. I'll create my own . . . I'll . . . make my own plans . . . the . . . must . . . hide it!
You'll die, all of you. You, Strauss . . . Snicket . . . and especially you, Baudelaire. You'll die. I'll KILL YOU!
Ah. And the money. We can't forget the money. I have it. It's here. And now it's mine, now you've all suffered. Now that Beatrice is gone.
And she's gone. She is. And I've killed her.
Now. If only I could find Snicket. I'll kill him, too. He knows about Beatrice . . . No one should know about . . . Beatrice . . . The fire is . . . aha. I know what I should do. No you don't. I do. I should make my own. And they can all make fire. Fire my own. My . . . own . . . fire . . .
And they'll never kill it. Never.
My flame . . .
Burn.
~*~
And now you know. Now you KNOW. Fire is a delicate art.
~*~
A/N: Yes, and this was very freakish. It's one of the most freakish thing I've ever written. Don't worry, I'll write one for dear Carmelita Spats soon. :D