Psychopath : No Pyro, No Party

 

 

I was at my grandparents´home in the countryside. They lived on the side of a hill, their nearest neighbour was some distance away, their house just about visible in the distance. It was a secluded place with a large property which one reached by walking up a set of grand steps. The rear of the house enjoyed a sweeping view across a valley, the ability to see miles into the distance. I would often climb up the fence and stand atop it, legs jammed either side of it as I raised a pretend telescope to my eye and scanned the horizon.

“What do you see?” asked my brother expectantly.

“Orcs. Hobgoblins too,” I would say slowly before lowering the telescope.

“How many?” he would ask.

“Thousands.”

He gulped. He believed the hordes were marching on us.

“Sound the alarm Captain,” I instructed, “make ready to defend Castle Hollow,” I added

My brother snapped into action and took up the old hand bell which he began to ring vigorously as he shouted “Alarm!” at the top of his voice. He went running along the top of the slope which formed the western edge of the garden and where I was still perched on the fence, seeking out my sister who we had stationed on the northern wall, rousing her into action.

 

The size and location of this property was ideal for such adventures.

 

Away from the house was a long lawn which stretched for some distance. It was pristine and weed free, the pride and joy of my grandfather. Beside this lawn was an old garage which was a source of so many fascinating and bizarre items which my grandfather stored in there. The old doors would creak open, allowing some light into its murky cavernous depths which smelt of oil and metal. Within we would ignore his car under its dust sheet and instead seek out material for our adventures amidst the benches of tools, artefacts and spare materials. It was a treasure trove of items and we would readily make use of them.

 

Behind the garage, on the left hand side of the pristine lawn was a raised area of rough land. It had a wall on its right hand side separating it from the lawn and then an area which was overgrown. I never understood why it was left like this. On the right hand side of the lawn was a path and then flower beds but for some curious reason my grandfather never cultivated this stretch of land. That suited me for it was where I would create battles. I would dig holes and place inside of them containers which I would then fill with petrol taken from the jerry cans kept in the garage I would create a landscape on this rough land, creating small buildings from wood broken from pallets, imaginary refineries, chemical plants, ammo dumps and so forth. My brother often wanted to join in but I always sent him away, this was my world and he was not allowed in.

 

Having crafted an imaginary country with its various buildings and infrastructure, I would then ignite a large piece of plastic so it would wrap around a long stick. I would then utilize the stick as a bomber aircraft as it would slowly fly over the landscape below. The melting plastic would slowly drop in flaming goblets from the stick, like bombs dropping on the unsuspecting town below. They would hit the wooden houses, sometimes becoming extinguished from the fall, on other occasions igniting the wood so I could smile to myself as I watched the replica house burn imagining its stricken inhabitants meeting a fiery demise. The hissing bomblets would strike the containers of petrol and with a most satisfying “wumf” ignite the petrol and the flames would dance. My bomber would slowly arc through the sky above bringing fiery death and destruction on those below. I would meander along until I would then turn having reached the end of the rough area of land and look back. There was the blazing “town” annihilated by my bomber, orange flames dotted the soil, flickering tongues of flame devouring the factories and homes I had created from the wood that I had found. The tubs of petrol still burned, blackened smoke arising from instances where I had added strips of rubber into the town. It created a marvelous picture. If I squinted, it made it look all the more like an actual town which had been bombed. I imagined terrified residents running from buildings and decided that I would cause another fly by of my bomber to ensure that those people who had not been roasted in the first pass would soon meet a flaming demise.

 

“HG!”

 

I turned, my imaginings disrupted by this foul intrusion into my world. It was my grandfather. He was advancing down the steps from the house having evidently seen the smoke rising in the air. He could not see the flames, the garage hid them, but the smoke had risen high enough for him to notice and here he came to spoil my campaign. I ran back towards where my matches and the jerry can were, hurdling the still burning town.

 

“Are you burning things again you little bugger?” shouted my grandfather.

 

I was tempted to deny the accusation but did not want to give away my position as I swept up the matches into my pocket and grabbed the jerry can. It was only a quarter full as I scrambled towards the drystone wall which formed a boundary to the area of rough land.

 

“You are you utter rascal!” came a cry of confirmation from my grandfather as I threw the jerry can over the wall hearing it land on the other side. I climbed the wall, the flat stones affording an easy route as I slipped over the top and dropped down onto a section of sloping grass and then steadied myself.

 

“How many times have you been told?” came another shout but I could hear already the resignation in his voice. He knew he was beat and it was happening most times these days.

Most times.

 

I located the jerry can, checked I still had the matches and crossed the narrow and empty lane to climb another slight grass slope. I once again threw the jerry can over the next drystone wall and ascended it. I could hear the rusting squeak of the wheel which housed the hosepipe being turned by my grandfather and knew there would be no further pursuit.

 

“Your mother knows what you have been doing,” announced my grandfather. He knew what he was doing by telling me that. I stopped on the wall and momentarily wondered if a return would be best. I immediately rejected such a suggestion. I was not satisfied, grandfather had interrupted me and I needed more. I needed more flames, I needed to burn. I sat atop the drystone wall as I could hear the spatter of water and the hiss of extinguished flames from the wooden buildings. He would just throw earth over the small petrol pots to put them out, he had shown me how to do it in the past. Yet, extinguishing was not what was needed. I wanted more, I wanted something to burn, something bigger.

 

The hut!

 

I closed my eyes and envisioned turning my fire lighting skills to the abandoned wooden building which sat atop the steep embankment which was opposite me and opposite the house.

 

 

In my mind´s eye a flickering, orange glow arose.. As I approached, the source of the light became apparent – a wooden building engulfed in flames.

 

The fire danced and writhed, consuming everything in its path, transforming the once sturdy structure into a roaring inferno. The colors swirled and melded together in a chaotic symphony of destruction. The vibrant oranges and reds dominated the scene, radiating an intense heat that could be felt even from a distance.

 

The smell assaulted my senses as I drew closer, a pungent mixture of burning wood, heated metal, and charred debris. The acrid scent filled the air, wafting through the atmosphere with a familiar presence. It was a scent of danger, of devastation, a reminder of the destructive forces at play.

 

Searing crackles and pops joined the symphony of destruction, echoing around me. The snapping and splintering of wood created a cacophony of sounds, each explosion marking the demise of another part of the building. The flames roared like a wild beast, hungry and insatiable, displaying a destructive power that seemed to defy interruption.

 

Amidst the chaos I envisaged the power to ruin. This building, once filled with life and purpose, now reduced to ashes. The crackling flames seemed to devour the memories that once echoed within its walls, leaving only destruction in their wake.

 

I opened my eyes dispelling the scene I had envisaged and climbed down from the wall. I took up the jerry can once again and stood looking at the tree-infested embankment. Yes, I needed more to burn, I needed some form of satisfaction. I could hear my grandfather muttering but he was playing firefighter, I had a new target.

 

I began to climb the embankment.