The Lady of Fire

She was sweating already, trembling, her mouth parched, the anxiety and smell of gasoline making her dizzy.  The empty gas cans lay scattered around her on the living room floor, cold metal and red chipped paint.  All the lights were off.  There was no need; there would be light soon enough.  The flame of the lit match rippled with Stacy's every breath, the stem of the match clenched between her pale fingers.  She was so small, but Stacy could see her.  Feel her.  Smell her.  She was alive in the flame and in the toxic fumes of the gasoline.  Her.  The Lady of Fire.
"Do it," the Lady whispered through the flickering flame, her voice an unspeakable melody, "Do it.  I'll love you like no one ever has.  Like no one ever would.  I'll take it all away.  The rooms where your father beat you.  The pictures of the mother who abandoned you.  All the clothes, gadgets, toys, and furniture.  All that was loved in place of you."  The heat of the flames drew close to her fingertips.  "Do it.  Dance with me, Stacy.  Give me wings."
A tear slipped down Stacy's cheek and she rose to her feet, gazing into the flame.  "Show me," she demanded.
"I will," the Lady promised.
Stacy's fingers tightened and then flicked forward, sending the match tumbling free.  The flame grew as it licked up the fumes until it touched the fuel soaked rug.  The roar of a goddess leapt through Stacy's ears and a flash of unholy light blinded her eyes.  The house that had always been so dead and cold was suddenly alive and erupted with heat.  Burning heat.  Stacy blinked to see flames blooming around her in a great symphony.  Red, orange, yellow, and white.  Oh so beautiful.  Oh so untouchable.
The flames leapt up the curtains and they parted, fluttering like a woman's skirt.  And then she saw her.  The Lady of Fire.  Rippling hair and burning eyes.  Legs long and stretching beneath fans of flame.  Arms that waved and fingers that glowed.  Breasts like flower petals and hips that moved to an indiscernible song.  Her body flowed as one and she leapt forward, dancing onto the floor and twirling upon a pile of newspapers.
"More," the Lady whispered.
"More!" Stacy screamed.
Snatching up a lighter and a can of hairspray, she took off kicking through the halls.  Her fingers snapped over the lighter and squeezed the spray.  Fire roared forth at her command, scorching all things at her mercy.  The wallpaper turned black and the wood and glass suffered under the heat.  The Lady of Fire danced in her wake, her fiery lips sucking the oxygen out of the air.  Stacy ripped aside the closet door and dumped out the photo albums, feasting the fire upon them.  The paper and plastic crackled mercilessly.
"I can't see you anymore!" Stacy mocked as the pictures perished, "I can't see you!"
"The taste is sweet," the Lady sang.
Stacy stomped on the flame stricken pile and soared away, the smoke and fumes swirling through her lungs.  She descended into her bedroom and the can began to squeal.  She tripped on her racing legs and the can flew free, exploding with a bang, like a gun as a life vanishes.  Stacy hissed through her teeth and threw the lighter onto the bed, setting flames budding on the sheets.  Her eyes lit with the flames, she kicked over her desk and pounded the leg till it broke off.  The Lady of Fire danced by and lit it on fire.
"Go."
Raising her fiery brand over her head, Stacy charged down the hall and up the stairs to her father's bedroom.  She set the master bed aflame and then began to pile all his clothes on the floor, torching them.  She dug out his stash of men's magazines and lit the corners of them one by one, watching with hateful glee as the whores were consumed by the flame.  The Lady of Fire swayed through the clothing and her father's books.  Stacy snatched up one of the burning magazines.
"See?!" she cried, "See how beautiful you are?!  How ugly you make them?!"
The Lady's burning fingers closed around the magazine.  "Yes," she breathed, "Keep going."
Stacy darted all over the room, smashing and knocking over everything in sight.  She ducked under the blazing bed and began to pull shoes and misplaced items out, setting them all on fire.  Her fingers grasped something silky and she pulled out a laced thong.  Her fist clenched around it and she threw it to the ground with a scream of rage, stabbing it repeatedly with her fiery brand.  She pounded it again and again until it caught fire and the Lady of Fire swept it up in her skirt.
Heat poured into the room and she took off tearing through halls once more.  In the kitchen, cupboards flew open and were completely emptied.  She broke every plate her wretched father had feasted upon, all his wine glasses; all his special steak knives.  She shredded the dishtowels and offered them to the Lady's touch.  Not a single bite of food remained in the pantry nor the refrigerator or the freezer.  She ripped open the liquor cabinet and cast the alcohol into the flames.  Great bursts erupted with each toss, the Lady gratefully drinking it all away.
Her skirt drifted on by as Stacy smashed the microwave, licking at the ends of the dining room table.  The fumes filled Stacy's soul, turning it black and choking her.  But it was not as the choking of all the times her father had wrapped his hands around her neck.  It burned and made her dreamy so that it was as if she were having the most wonderful nightmare imaginable.  Sweat and soot adorned her, a ballet of fire moving in circles before her.  She found a kitchen knife and began to stab at the furniture and walls, ripping, marring, smashing.
"Dance with me," the Lady called, beckoning her with a fiery hand.
Stacy stabbed the knife through a painting and left it there, rushing to the Lady of Fire.  The Lady swayed and Stacy spun, faster and faster until she vomited.  The Lady purged the guck with her toes and continued to prance, leaping all around her without bounds.  Stacy leapt too, her heart racing and her skin stinging and red.  She grabbed another knife and dragged it across the walls, sailing behind the Lady's skirt.  The house moaned and wailed pitifully, the flames turning it into a pathetic little mutt.
Stacy stood on her toes and raised her hands into the air.  "I did this!!!" she roared, "I!  I!  I did it all!  I created this!  This is all mine!!!"
The Lady grew and grew around her, nothing left unscathed by her touch.  "I love you," she whispered, "I am all yours."
"Mine!  Mine!" Stacy screamed at the ceiling, "And you'll never take it from me!!!"
Sirens blazed in the distance, but what a pathetic call compared to the roar of the flames.  The light of the fires glowed in Stacy's eyes and in the sweat that poured over her skin.  No one but the Lady of Fire would have recognized her in that moment.  All the pain and sorrow had been burnt away, leaving a smoldering heap of ash in her soul.  The Lady's fingers touched her sleeve for the briefest moment, setting it aflame.  Stacy slapped it out and then gazed deep into the flames, the cloud of smoke blinding her from anything else.
And as the flashing lights and blaring alarms drew closer, she curled her fists and threw back her head, letting out a shriek that would shake the dead.  A terrible cry that outdid the roaring flames and the wailing house.  All stood still as it pierced their ears, the fire flowing and continuing its dance upon the shingles…


Lieutenant Reynolds closed the police report and rubbed his eyes with a sigh.  Before him was a photograph of the late Stacy Mallory, lying on a metal slab in the coroner's office.  Twenty three year old Caucasian female.  Cause of death:  self-inflicted bullet wound to the head.  Looking now at that lovely face it was hard to believe that this young woman was the greatest serial arsonist of their time.  In her career of eight years she had burned over fifty homes, starting at fifteen when she torched her father's house in New Jersey.  Lieutenant Reynolds shook his head.  And now here she lay, the girl who had danced even unto death with the Lady of Fire.

Copyright © 2009 Shannon Barker