Relief

Relief --


I wipe the condensation off the glass and stare at the sidewalk in front of the burnt remains of the house. The night is bright and I can hear Melanie’s soft, delicate voice carried by the breeze from the hollowed out shell of her two-story house. My skin crawls and an icy tingle travels up my spine. Even after releasing the curtain, the hairs on my arms and neck remain stiff.

I slam the door behind me and cross the street, where I lean against the mailbox and wait. The house creaks open and from nowhere Melanie appears with her dogs.

Directly in front of me now, the dogs whine, tuck their tails and tug at the ends of their leashes, trying to pull Melanie away from me.

“Is someone there?” Melanie calls out.

I wish I’d noticed movement behind the curtain before pouring the gasoline and lighting the match. I know truth might bring relief.

The headlights of a car hit me from behind. “Oh, God,” Melanie says. The same headlights hit her and the dogs, shattering them into mist.

In my bedroom, looking again out the window, I see their unrelieved silhouettes, pacing in front of the house.