Page 11 of Fiery Little Thing
Hatred courses through my veins, drilling down into my bones and turns the world into shades of black and red as I charge down the street, getting farther and farther away from the graveyard of my memories. Somewhere along the way, I feel wetness slide down my cheek as I run from my nonexistent home. It isn’t until the Cape Cod–style mansion is in front of me that I realize thunder has cracked through the sky and rain is battering the ground, soaking through my uniform and saturating my hair.
Kohen is going to pay for what he did to my house.
I barely feel the wrought iron fence dig into my skin, or the trickle of blood that runs down my stomach. The liquid fire coursing through my veins turns my body numb. It doesn’t hurt when I kick down their $100K outdoor sculpture, using its remains to break the tail off the mermaid fountain. I hardly even register the splinter sticking out of my finger as I grip a shovel and bring it down on their marble pavement. I flip off the security cameras before grabbing a rock and throwing it at the window beside the back door to unlock it.
Each movement is another drop of gasoline to my wrath.
I need him to pay.
The alarms don’t go off when I step into the kitchen. Instead, an older woman wearing a stained apron meets my stare with wide parted lips. I grab the knife on the kitchen counter and look her dead in the eyes and mouth a single word.
“Run.”
She scurries out another door and into the rain. I pick up my pace, running up the stairs and into the room I knowhesleeps in.
I throw the door open, and a wave of patchouli and mint crashes into me, making me stall for a second before fury rears its ugly head, and my hand goes flying, intent on ruin. His room is covered in junk: ripped up magazines, half burned posters, a hoodie that looks just like the one Mom took from me, buttons and knick-knacks, and the wallet he stole from me yesterday. There’s no rhyme or reason to my path of demolition, stabbing into his bed, slashing into his pillow and his stupid fucking Egyptian cotton sheets and waffle duvet.
My vision is a violent, pulsing crimson as I scan the room for something that looks like his soul would perish at the thought of losing it. I need to find a keepsake. Something sentimental. His old boxing gloves fall victim to the blade next. Then, his championshipbelt and signed shorts. The rage courses through my veins, intensifying as I destroy Kohen’s things, one after another.
I exchange the knife for the bat leaning against the foot of his bed, taking it with my trembling hands to bring it down on his computer, then the walls and windows. I can’t stop even if I want to. Nothing is free from my wrath. Not Kohen, and sure as fuck not his parents. They’re the ones who let their pigheaded son get this way.Theytaught him to shit on anyone who isn’t him.
Their grand bedroom is easy enough to find. Designer dresses and suits become torn, and their lamps and fancy ornaments are broken, along with the hideous modern art hanging above their bed. Mrs. Osman’s jewels and Mr. Osman’s expensive watches find a home in my pocket.
My heart races and sweat beads along my forehead as I picture my bedroom and everything I’ve lost. In the bottom drawer of my bedside table—mydestroyed bedside table—there’s an empty instant noodles wrapper from the first time I successfully used the stove without burning myself. On my bedside table, sunglasses I saw my dad wear one day, even though they didn’t belong to him. In a porcelain jewelry box, there’s a hairpin from my cousin whom I’ve only met once—I don’t even remember her name. And there’s the very first thing I stole from Kohen—an empty green and red BIC lighter.
I will never see any of it again. It’s all fucking gone.
Fiery goosebumps explode over my flesh as the rage burns hotter. The sound of a shattering mirror isn’t enough to calm the beast that’s left its cage and has no intention of going back in. Nothing is soothing it. Not the antique vases in the hallway, their wedding photos, the expensive cars in the garage, the various sculptures andart pieces that look as hideous as the family, or the dents and holes I’m leaving throughout the house.
I can just imagine their faces when they see what I’ve done to their precious art. I bet the rich assholes around here would call the pieces one of a kind. I bet they argued over who would buy each one and paid more than they’re worth at an auction filled with more pretentious rich fuckers. They probably cracked a $5,000 bottle of champagne afterward and laughed as they watched the help struggle to carry the pieces through the gigantic house.
Their pretty art is gone now. They’ll never get it back; nothing from their insurance payout. The artists are probably in their graves, turning with the knowledge that the Osmans will pay a run-of-the-mill artist to replicate each piece for a tenth of the price they bought it for.
Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them.
I hate them all.
I fucking hate this place.
Red and blue lights flash behind the curtains, but I don’t stop. The china cabinet groans in protest as I push it forward, sending each delicate item flying to the ground in a symphony of shattering pieces. A resounding boom reverberates throughout the room while I aim for the cupboard stocked with liquor worth more than I could earn in a year, and—
“Stop! Put your hands up!”
Of course I don't listen; I haven’t caused enough hurt yet. My grandparents need to pay for sending me here. The Osmans need to pay for treating me like shit. They all need to suffer like I did—like my mother and I did.
Arms trap me before I can take a broken chair leg to their baywindow, but I still manage to kick my leg out to send cracks radiating outward from the point of contact. Another officer manages to wrangle the chair leg out of my hand while the one holding me sends me sprawling onto the floor with my hands locked behind my back.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Tell Kohen I’m not done yet.”
Two Months Later
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Fifth-Divorce asks.
“I’d do it again.”
As a matter of fact, it’s been scientifically proven I’ll do it again. Kleptomania is quite literally written in red ink on my file, and the school shrink circled ten out of ten on the “likelihood to reoffend” scale.
