I didn’t start the fire that burned in my father’s heart, nor did I even know what set off the spark. All I knew is that he burned with fury, and scorched all he touched, hence why I say I didn’t start it or that I know what caused it. There were others that weren’t me or my father, others that I loved, but when he laid his incendiary hands upon them, up in smoke they went.
The first sign was the arguing, heat flirting with kindling. The nights that I’d wake from sleep in cold sweats and hearing them fight and the objects that crashed near my door. The nights I’d have to reassure my siblings that it’d be ok, that the fire wouldn’t come to harm them, even when I wasn’t sure myself and especially when they were arguing about us.
The next sign was bruises and black eyes that failed to be concealed by make-up, or hiding it by turning the other way. The crying that failed to remain silent, and the wobbling lips that threatened a downpour. These were the burns of his fire, and for the moment, they only touched one. However, one cannot help but see someone badly burned and not feel hurt themselves. One cannot see the blackened remnants of a mother, and not think that the fire would come for them too.
The next was a spark. This could be minuscule, something unnoticeable, or in the case of my parents, a lightning bolt upon dried leaves. I didn’t start the fire in his heart, but I could see the ashes of a murder scene in my own home. I cried when I saw the trail of blood stickily smeared from the kitchen to the backyard. I nearly puked when I saw the patch of heaved earth that was to be my mother.
And I wept when I hid the evidence.
Indeed, my tears joined the crimson as I mopped up anything to give him away. As much I wanted to get the police, and as much as I wanted to kill him myself, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. This house needed him to stand, as vile as he was, he still brought the bread home. I bawled when I planted flowers over her grave. The taste of tears was always salty with a tinge of sweetness on my lips. The taste reminded me of her. Bittersweet.
One might hear this and think why didn’t I run? The door was right there, after all, I could simply kick it open and gallop away and never look back. In truth, I would’ve, were I a braver mare and if there was no one left but me. As it happened, my sister and brother would have to live with him, and I’d be damned if any harm came to them and put blood on my hooves. As my mother was the bulwark to me, I would be to them.
I may have been too scared to run, but my sister was not. I never saw her again. My father barely cared, ‘one less mouth to feed. Good riddance.’ I wanted to wring his neck. I wanted to buck every tooth from his infernal mouth, to throw boiling water on his face and watched as he writhed. But still, I nodded my head and knuckled under. I remember getting frequent migraines from grinding my teeth.
One would think that after his fire consumed two of his flesh and blood, that it would die down. It was only an accelerant to the inferno of fury he’d become. The beatings became frequent for both my brother and me, but when I could, I took them for him. It wasn’t much solace, but it was better than sitting and flinching as every hit connected.
Then one day, my brother vanished. The night I went to sleep he was across the room in his own shoddy, rickety bed. When the morning came, he was gone. As much as it hurt for him to be gone, and as alone I felt, a strange sensation of freedom came over me.
There was an expression I’d heard before, to fight fire with fire. And as much of a wildfire as he’d become, and as much as his fire scorched everyone around him, mine was stronger. I can’t really remember what happened, and there was nothing left after to give me a clue. What I do have a memory of was the joy I felt when I bashed his head open, and when I danced upon the matter that gushed from him. The glee from when I caved his head in with a frying pan from behind.
The best was the smell of the house turning to cinders before me. The warm orange light that bathed Ponyville that night was a comforting beacon. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I didn’t have anything left to care about save for one thing: Victory. I’d won. I beat my father, and the blood was on my hooves and his pyre extended into the night.
My own flame was sparked that night, but unlike my father, it died down to a candle’s fuse. It’s in a jail cell that this candle flickers, casting a shadow of myself and my deeds in a much larger and scarier image than it really is. They see a monster with jagged teeth and a gnarled, impossible form. They see evil decaying in a cage. They see a murderer.
Arson and murder was the charge, and they’d see me rot in a cell at best and hang from the gallows at worst.
It doesn’t matter to me what the law decides to do with my life because I have nothing left to do in it. My blaze consumed my father’s, and in getting arrested and likely executed, I’ve extinguished two flames. A pile of damp ashes can’t hurt anyone. It won’t knock them out or get drunk and rip their hair out. It won’t drive anyone to murder. This pile of ashes should only be kicked over and forgotten.
Author's Note
Hello again! Sorry I was a day late with posting, the day kinda got away from me. But what did you think about this story? Let me know! It was a burst of insanity and inspiration that I'm glad turned out so well. Moreover, I'm thrilled that Snow drew a cover for this! Go read her work, and see her art! It's amazing!
There's more to come from me in the near future, and not all of it bad or dark or heavy, so stay tuned!
