Friday, 25 November 2011

Sin... Peter...

I'm told that a single match can burn a thousand dreams. As the Olympic Flame can light the fire of hope in a million hearts, one tiny match can turn hope into hell.

Meet Peter.

Pyro Pete, of course. What else could he be called?

Well, he could be called a lot, and was. Scum. Murderer. Filth. Many more that I can't bring myself to repeat here for fear of them tainting my tongue with their tragic touch. Mostly he was called Pyro, though that would often be followed with him being spat at in the face, with a good cough-up of phlegm added for effect. A kind of physical full stop, or exclamation mark. Or two by four.

I simply called him Peter. My disgust prevented me from putting any effort into cannibalising his name. He didn't deserve the firing of my neurons that it would take to decide which pseudonym I was going to attach to his despicable derriere.

He knew the family. Don't they usually? He blamed it on the voices.

Again, don't they usually?

He was possessed, he said. A demon had taken him when he was sitting on the toilet one Friday morning, apparently. When things should have been exiting, something entered. And it told him to.

They were evil. The father, who worked too many hours but always made time for his children and his wife. The mother who worked too, but was always there to pick up her boys from school.

The boys. Twelve years old. Twins. Not star pupils, but doing all right, you know? They'd glide more than soar, but wouldn't plummet.

Well, until Peter - or the demon within -struck that match.

Then their wings were burned. Then they were basted in their own tears. And there was no need for the mother to collect them from school or help them with their homework. And the father didn't have to go to work anymore, nor did he need to read to them at night, something he'd done since they were little and they didn't want him to stop. But he did stop. He had no choice. The books were gone. He was gone. They all were.

One match burned all their dreams.

And now he's in here with us, because of that demon he says told him to.

They should keep him separate, for his own safety. But they don't. Is that because they don't care? Or is it that they do?

He's still here, but, somehow, I don't think it will be for long. Retribution sneaks along the corridors of a place like this, hiding in shadows, waiting until it's time.

Maybe it'll be today.

Maybe tomorrow.


  1. Love the writing, especially the first sentence. Hope this will become a book some day.

  2. That is a scary post! Retribution... sneaking up on you...