Wildfire

I was born into chaos.
Into a dirt poor family of drunks.
Didn’t have much of a childhood. Mostly ran wild, fed when they remembered, neglected and ignored while they guzzled beers. Yeah, I had a shitty family, but I didn’t question it because I didn’t know anything better existed. At least for a while.
Until I became a teenager. Then it dawned. No one cared, except to call me a worthless girl, or criticize me, or the occasional backhand slap when I mouthed off. And the older I got, the more I mouthed off. Slaps turned to punches, and my sass transformed into outright rebellion. I ran away at fourteen and lived on the streets until they dragged me back home. After that, it was me being locked in my room and weekly beatings.
They should have let me be.
Teenage rebellion can fester into hatred fast.
I wanted out, and I found a way.
All it took was a sedative-laced bottle of whiskey, rags, a can of gasoline, and a match.
It felt good standing outside the house, watching the flames, listening as they crackled, knowing my family was inside. I only wished I could have heard them scream.
Then I walked away, grinning.
Best thing I ever did was let it all burn.

~ A. F. Stewart