by A. Pesarosa

Created on: December 15, 2010

The darkness wrapped around the swamp like an unwanted hug. A moonless night, the true new moon Simon had said. The clouds suffocated even the slightest twinkle, and every breath felt labored, as if the heavy and wet air demanded payment and retribution for just the very act of passing through Anna’s lungs. She breathed in slowly and deeply.

She wasn’t scared, even though Simon had left her, angrily taking the lantern and leaving only the echoes of his protest. She ran smooth fingertips across her bare midriff, and let her thoughts trace the unkempt path he would be following at this very second. She could see him, in her mind, his shoulders up, back slightly bent to the rhythm of his silent footsteps, his gait matching the dodge and tousle of the back-wooded corridors they‘d tunneled together practically since infancy.

She wished, again, for a fire. The hot, sultry night hadn’t necessitated it, had all but disallowed it, but the longing for warmth on her skin never seemed far from her. She cleared her mind of Simon and imagined, instead, flames dancing to the crackle of dry twigs and burning logs. She indulged in the fantasy, relishing the thought of her body, naked, touched by the heat.

How she would move closer, slowly, warming herself with each step, until her entire body glowed with toasted satisfaction. She envisioned herself walking right into the fire, flames surrounding her, engulfing her, climbing her limbs, her neck, her face, like a Bible story she remembered from childhood.

Anna couldn’t remember the exact details, only how the three boys had rebelled against the law of the land, unyielding in their dissension and unwilling to alter their beliefs, much like Anna. They had been made to pay, also much like Anna, cast into the furnace and left to fiery demise.

God himself had sent down protection, so the story went, and not a hair on their head had been singed. She fingered her own dark locks, brushing them back from her face and doubting anyone would notice her vestal suicide, much less save her. At this point, Simon probably wouldn’t piss on her to put the fire out.

Not that she cared. Well, not much, anyway. She imagined shooting fire from her fingertips, aiming it like lightning bolts at all the small minds who would whisper behind her back. She’d heard it her whole life, the whispers, the snakelike hissing and sharp intake of breath as elbows were shoved into ribs and conversation abruptly stopped

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