Status: its in lowercase bc #aesthetic

A Life in Intervals


you were fifteen when your home burnt down.

you'd killed someone--someone else, and much more cleanly, much more painlessly--and their girlfriend was angry. their girlfriend was sad. you'd hurt someone she'd liked.

you didn't have many friends, really, and none near your own home.

she had a lot of friends.

it was the wet season. thank the insomniac that it was.

they'd tracked you down while you were in your home. they had propane and matches. they quietly doused the tree that your home rested in with the liquid, lit the matches, and dropped them. then they ran, presumable. you don't know, you were too busy being on fire.

you stumbled, more like fell out the tree, and half-dragged yourself, out of range of the fire, severely burnt and shaking, and left the mercy of the scorching sun. you don't remember how you survived, and would never know, but you were never quite the same after that.

it took nearly a year for your hair to grow back.