She drives 95 in her car with the top down. There’s a dent in the right side, her work, but she doesn’t care. He bought this one as an apology. A tacky red, more his style than hers. An apology for one of countless offenses, which one in particular she can’t remember. The wind blows her hair into an angry tangle, like the rose bushes that cut her legs, the night she snuck a glance at the new renovation. She lets the discomfort sit. It’s how she knows she’s still alive.
The ocean glitters blue like liquid sapphire. Her engagement ring, so large it made her mother speechless, so exaggerated that the country club girls couldn’t show their jealousy to her face. Everything is a reminder of all that she’s lost.
The anger must keep her sharp. That’s what she tells herself as she drives. She cruises towards the city at an alarming speed. The drivers she weaves between want to flip her off, but she’s gone before they can even lift their hands. A woman scorned by the gods, a glance in the rearview mirror might turn them to stone.
Her right tire is almost on top of the gas station curb. The hood shimmers fire red in the afternoon sun, a comet that has landed in the otherwise abandoned parking lot.
Bells jingle frantically as she pushes open the door. Her dress swishes through the aisles with ease. The man at the register doesn’t notice her yet. He stares, eyes wide, at the car deftly dodging the county police on the TV. She slams a can of gasoline onto the counter. He startles twice—once at the sound, again when he meets her gaze. Red webs spreading from serpentine eyes, he is frozen in a trance.
She coughs once, sharp, and he rings her up without a word. The bells jingle a warning tune as she leaves through the wrong door. As the sun sets, she circles her target. The monotony of the drive forces her to stare up at the sky. She holds to her conviction, but she prays for a sign. A shooting star, and she should forgive. Lightning to prove he was sorry. There are no messages waiting in the blank expanse of the night sky, dull with light pollution. Certain proof to continue. Tightening the vise, the house comes into view.
Her house, their house, his house. Frivolous windowsills that her mother-in-law almost killed her for painting. The back door she never used, where he would tiptoe her Pilates friends through. Jenny from hot yoga added rose bushes under the balcony window, glowing a violent red in the dying sunset. She resists the urge to pull them out with her bare hands. No use, they will burn anyway.
She pours gasoline into the grass. Was she foolish? To believe him when he said he loved her, he would always care for her, it was only one time, it didn’t mean anything. All words, all lies, and she fell for every one.
Her heels in one hand, toes digging into the plush ground. Who’s the foolish one now? When he comes back from Key West with his new blushing bride, he will find nothing. Not even the part of her heart holding out for him. That, too, will burn.
She pictures his face in the smoke and smirks. The match falls from her hand into the grass, and with a spark, a blaze blooms near her feet. She is not fazed by the heat. Her gaze is fixed on the roof where the flames will soon crawl. She must leave before she is seen, but her feet have taken root in stolen ground.
Before long, the house will be engulfed in a hazy sheen, but the smell of burning grass barely touches her nose.
It is an exorcism, a strike of the match, and the fire snakes towards the house.
Raya El-Hajjar is a writer and student based in Milwaukee. She writes and mentors for IndyKids magazine, where she has published articles. Her short fiction has earned national recognition, including a Silver Medal in the Scholastic Writing Awards. Beyond literature, Raya advocates for social justice through her involvement in community organizations.