Noxious

2 | it all first started

Rowan 

three days ago 

I wish the world would burn.

I had always been satisfied watching the flames devour everything in their reach. I suppose that's why the doctors diagnosed me with a condition that basically means I can't live without setting something on fire. Who could blame them? I had been setting fire to things since I was four. 

My mom absolutely hated it. 

I didn't care. 

There were just some things you needed to do to release some stress and emotion, especially when everyone else turned their back and left. I always looked on the bright side of things, I could be doing worse things, and all I wanted to do was set things on fire. 

What's the big deal about that?

I watched my friend click his lighter, the satisfying flame coming to life as he lit his cigarette. We sat on the roof of an old building on the quiet side of the city, our legs dangling over the edge, as we decompressed from a long day. High school could really suck the life out of you. 

"Why, Milo?" I posed the question, as I always did, and he always knew what I meant.  

He shrugged, exhaling the smoke, "It doesn't matter anymore."  

"What doesn't matter, your life?" I snapped.

"Fuck off, man," He snapped defensively, "You're not my therapist, I don't need you digging around in my life." 

"Alright," I raised my hands in mock surrender, "Just don't say stuff like that." 

He simply sighed in response. 

Ever since I had moved to this godforsaken city, he had been my only friend. I don't think he realizes how much I enjoy the company. We usually hang out every evening after school because I absolutely hated to go home. It's easier to avoid the trouble, than confront it. 

Suddenly, I saw Milo lean forward. I thought he was gazing down at the empty, and mostly abandoned street, for the lone car that was surely set to going to be our victim. Then, I realized his eyelids were fluttering. 

I grabbed his arm before he fell. "Dude, you okay?" 

"Yeah," He sprung upright, and then he was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, "Shit." 

"Are you on drugs?" 

He chuckled briefly, "I wish." When I didn't say anything in return, he groaned and looked at me. "Are we going to burn some shit or what? I need a distraction." 

"Yeah," I grabbed my backpack and unzipped it. I always had lighter fluid and a box of matches. During the end of summer, I liked to stock up on fireworks, too. "Here," I handed him the lighter fluid. 

He popped the lid and chucked the entire bottle. 

"What the fuck?" I blurted as I watched the bottle hit the roof of the car below us. It splattered all over before falling on the street. "That cost like six dollars," I shot at him, "Are you gonna pay for it?" 

He dug around in his pocket and then shoved a five-dollar bill in my hand, snatching the box of matches from my other hand. I watched him in disbelief. He was acting weird today. Come to think of it, he had been. I noticed he had been a lot clumsier lately, and he often tripped in the hallways at school. 

He lit a single match and--with a glance my way--dropped it. Instantly, it took off on the lighter fluid and flames started devouring what they could. I watched in fascination, feeling the tension leaving my shoulders as the orange light danced, and the smell of fresh smoke eased me.