Criminal Addiction.
Addiction.
August is the best time for burning. Some people may tell you different. My mother, for instance, liked to burn in the dead of winter. But August is the best month for burning. Imagine it, the calefaction of the blaze mingling with the sweltering August heat, heat that’s already rising off the sidewalks in waves, even at night. Beautiful, isn’t it?
My hands are burning and blistering from gripping the iron of the fire escape, but you know what? I don’t particularly give a shit. I can feel the heat, yes, but the adrenaline is more prominent, and the pounding of my heart disguises the burn as a pleasant heat.
Now we arrive at the formalities, the protocol of rule breaking; the conduct of crossing the line. My mother taught me the decorum of decorated criminals at the advanced age of nine.
“Annabelle,” she said, “if there is one thing you need to know about what I do, it’s the rules. Dress according to the weather, if you’re wearing a parka in June, the cops’ll spot it a mile away.” She would pause and drag on her cigarette every few minutes, emphasizing certain words, letting them sink in. “Never look like you’re just wandering,” she would continue. “Walk with a purpose, as if you’ve got every right to be there. Last, and remember this one, girl, never look back. Not once, until the crowd gathers to watch your masterpiece.” I can remember exactly how she looked that night, down to every last fading bruise.
The lights of the fire engines and police cars look like intricate artwork on the pavement. The reds and blues are so pretty. But everything is beautiful tonight; everything’s beautiful after you burn. It’s like you leave a part of you behind, like it dies in the flame.
From the rooftop my masterpiece appears no more than scintillation in the distance, but the fact it is this visible tells me it must be an inferno. People will speak of the tragedy of it all, but really, they’re just empty buildings for empty people. Myself included. Because, really, I just used the buildings. I just used them for my high. Like countless other junkies have. Like most criminals, I’m addicted to what I do. The adrenaline, the excitement, the beauty of it all. It’s intoxicating.
My hands are burning and blistering from gripping the iron of the fire escape, but you know what? I don’t particularly give a shit. I can feel the heat, yes, but the adrenaline is more prominent, and the pounding of my heart disguises the burn as a pleasant heat.
Now we arrive at the formalities, the protocol of rule breaking; the conduct of crossing the line. My mother taught me the decorum of decorated criminals at the advanced age of nine.
“Annabelle,” she said, “if there is one thing you need to know about what I do, it’s the rules. Dress according to the weather, if you’re wearing a parka in June, the cops’ll spot it a mile away.” She would pause and drag on her cigarette every few minutes, emphasizing certain words, letting them sink in. “Never look like you’re just wandering,” she would continue. “Walk with a purpose, as if you’ve got every right to be there. Last, and remember this one, girl, never look back. Not once, until the crowd gathers to watch your masterpiece.” I can remember exactly how she looked that night, down to every last fading bruise.
The lights of the fire engines and police cars look like intricate artwork on the pavement. The reds and blues are so pretty. But everything is beautiful tonight; everything’s beautiful after you burn. It’s like you leave a part of you behind, like it dies in the flame.
From the rooftop my masterpiece appears no more than scintillation in the distance, but the fact it is this visible tells me it must be an inferno. People will speak of the tragedy of it all, but really, they’re just empty buildings for empty people. Myself included. Because, really, I just used the buildings. I just used them for my high. Like countless other junkies have. Like most criminals, I’m addicted to what I do. The adrenaline, the excitement, the beauty of it all. It’s intoxicating.