Ashes

"Some people call it crazy. Well, I call it healing" --AWOLNATION

He smiled.

He pulled up to the house, steering the bike with one hand. In the other arm, he balanced a large grey bundle, certainly less than four feet long when laid out, but flexible enough to manage on the bike. He removed his helmet, his breath visible in the frosty twilight. The sun was setting beyond the pine trees that blinded the long driveway. He turned off the engine and, carefully taking the bundle into his arms, set down the kickstand. He entered the house, a grey figure with a grey burden.

Everything was white. Far too white. It was winter outside, but inside this house was where he truly felt cold. He moved to the center of the house and laid the bundle in the middle of the floor. He pulled back the coverings and revealed a small shriveled body, black as the darkest coal. It was weathered and beaten with time and stress. He knelt over it for a few seconds, but he did not seem to mourn.

He looked around the room. Everything else was in place. It had taken a few days to prepare. After all the time spent here, only a few days to finish everything.

That was fine by him.

He stood, wiping his hands off on his pants, and walked out. His footsteps felt light on the stone walkway, and he unslung a thin backpack as he turned back to face the house. He withdrew a bottle, a rag, a lighter, and a small container of gasoline. He set to work and soon tightly clenched the improvised explosive in his right hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it fondly before lighting it and launching it through the living room’s wide bay windows.

All of the wooden furniture, and a few other additions besides, had been stacked in the room where the shriveled dark body lay. It wasn’t long before the entire building was on fire.

The man turned to go, replacing his helmet and kicking the engine to life. He drove away quickly, and he did not look back.

And he smiled.