Pipsqueak

Not all children color inside the lines. Some burn the page instead.

She was the middle child—often ignored, not out of cruelty, but because her parents were simply exhausted.

Growing up in other people’s shadows had its advantages.
It gave her space. And secrets.

She found the box of matches when she was five. They were tucked behind a book near the fireplace. Living in a warm climate, she’d never seen a fire before—had no idea what the matches were for.

Behind the shed seemed like the perfect place to explore.

At first, she just smelled them. Then tasted them. The sulfur filled her nose—an endorphin precursor to the real joy: the smoke, the heat, the red-orange-blue flame, and eventually, the soft hush of ash.

Once she figured out how to strike one, she was sure she was the only one in her family who knew how.
The red-tipped sticks felt like magic.

Her early experiments were innocent. A few leaves. A fallen branch. A dry bush in the neighbor’s yard. A pile of newspapers.

Before her seventh birthday, she was a master.

Her burns were precise.
Artistic.
Neighbors discovered charred remains—half a toy, a blackened slipper—and admired the delicate pile of ash left behind, not realizing what had been taken from them until it was already gone.

By eight, her fires were no longer innocent.
They became an outlet.

Her brother’s favorite GI Joe.
Her mother’s right shoe.
Her father’s best suit.
Her sister’s beloved sweater.

She mimicked shock with ease. Learned how to blend in. The quiet one. The good one.
No one ever suspected her.

Her first living subject was uneventful—a neighbor’s gerbil.
After that, she decided breathing things required too many extra steps.
Too messy.
Too sad.

She honed her skill.
Got cleaner. Faster.
Invisible.

When the authorities investigated a string of fires, they found no trace.
She was always in the crowd. Watching.

This evening had been planned for weeks.

It was a replica of her test run at her aunt’s house—but riskier. The family she was watching had large cypress trees surrounding the property. The fire had to be precise. Clean. Controlled.

The plan was to ignite the first step.
Let it crawl slowly.
Stop at the front door.

She didn’t want the house.
Just the entrance.

The family was gone for the night. She had hours.

She found a place across the street. Sat down. Inhaled deeply—the sharp scent of pine and cypress in the breeze. She lit the match.

The first step caught. Then the second.
The flames danced, just like the flowers in her mother’s garden.

She smiled. Watched.
Closed her eyes for a moment.

She didn’t know how long her eyes had been closed.

When she opened them, the house was fully ablaze

She blinked, startled. Confused. The fire had jumped.
She hesitated.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to save it.
Maybe—if she acted fast—she could undo it.

But after a few quick calculations, she stood.
Undressed.

Neatly folded her clothing into perfect squares.
Removed her watch. Necklace. Earrings.
Placed them carefully on the rock.

She walked toward the flames.

“I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”