The tree doesn’t sway anymore. It used to dance, hover and protect the large brick house with its delicate, elegant branches. Dainty leaves would be released from the tips after a brief gust of wind and float gracefully onto the brick roof. Thick branches would tangle together, rejoicing in unison, sharing trails of ivy between the tiny gaps. It doesn’t do that anymore. Adara always made an effort to keep everything in pristine condition. She was careful to line the frail bushes parallel to the trodden path, creating an inviting atmosphere for when guests came and visited.
In the summer she would load up the lawn mower and guide it across the prickly grass, her forehead blazing in the burning sun. Streams of azaleas, lilies, iris’, orchids and peonies that she had delicately planted all lined the brick exterior of the house like an image on a postcard in springtime. I would catch her smuggling leftovers from the Sunday roast out the back door and chuckle to myself as she gathered them in piles (she always gave the rabbits a little more than she gave the mice. ) | suppose she just wanted to keep things fair and ensure that they are all fed properly; she’s always been keen to defend the small creatures.
Sometimes in the winter she would spend all day from before the world woke up to deep into the murky night, painting around the side of the house. She crafted gorgeous illustrations of strong, belligerent tree vines that wrapped themselves around pale, ghostly skin. Adara was so good at combining bold acrylic crimson with the rough charcoal in a way that never seemed harsh. I love watching her paint. I always wanted to tell her to go back inside in the warm, to finish her work in the morning, but I never wanted to interrupt her.
When she finally comes inside she undresses into her silk nightgown, lights the fire, tidies the scattered clothing and then flicks on every little light apart from one. She always leaves that one little light bulb out, doesn’t allow it the burning chemical energy that it desires. I never understood why she does this. Perhaps there is a drought of light bulbs in the house, I doubt very much she would limit the levels of amber glow that she allowed to swarm the living room. That’s one thing I do not understand about Adara. To be completely honest: I think she’s too good for him.
Their love is tainted and permeated with corruption and cruelty, he doesn’t deserve her. When the darkness had consumed the light and my vision through the window was slightly obscured I would peer through and observe their routine arguments. The sound of shattered glass and slamming doors sent shivers down my spine every time. I heard soft wails and pleas echoing from her lungs as she cried out in desperation when he loomed over her feeble figure, clinging mercilessly onto a bottle of whisky. My heart broke at the sight of her sobbing recklessly when he ripped her delicate flowers from the ground and scorched them into the mud.
When she would really misbehave, he would dare to splash black oil upon her careful paintings causing the paint to stream into the grass like a thick river of gasoline. Sometimes he even wrapped his ashy hands around her poor, weak throatleading her into asphyxiation. I am sure that her vision must have been corrupted with black dots and I am certain that her pale neck would be devoured with deep purple marks. She must have not felt much pain though, as the next night she would be showering him with love and affection. This is another thing that I do not understand.
I long to be in there with her, I would keep her safe forever. My Adara would never leave my sight, I’d make sure she had limited hours outside painting where everyone can see her. My Adara would not be allowed to wash and cook, what if she drops a plate and cuts herself? I cannot allow this to happen. If I had her I would protect her. My Adara… Humans have some sick, twisted concepts. People put themselves through agonising circumstances in some insane belief that it will make them ‘stronger. ‘ Why do they do that? Why do they appear vulnerable and defeated yet continue torturing themselves?
Why do they not attempt to relieve themselves of this direst cruelty? When will they finally give in? Sometimes she attempts to leave, she never tries hard enough though. It is pathetic really, I hate that she lets him use her and contain her there when she could be out safe with me. Her oblivious mind frustrates me. None of this matters anymore anyway; all of their problems are now smothered with flames. Torrential smoke cascades up and suffocates the night’s decor. Amber flames lick up the gasoline that is now fully submerged in the damp grass.
The flames engulf the peak of the house, covering it in a blanket of black fog. Windows splutters as they are saturated with grey clouds of smoke. Shattered glass and splintered wood crumbles into insignificance as they fuse with the infrastructure of the house. Soon only ash will remain. The fire was very cleverly set up. Gasoline had been leaking from a nearby tank for weeks, sinking into the underground pipes and being swallowed by the murky mud. A putrid aroma now flooded the air: a mixture of chemical combustion and sticky, damp land. All it took was one match stick to break the havoc.
I have always been fascinated by fire, I love the fact that it is a method to create light yet can be so cleverly used to enforce such gut wrenching torment. The flickers of ember and heat that emits from the roaring flames can be used to comfort and provide warmth yet can also cloud up lungs with menacing particulates. People’s minds are instantly driven to insanity as soon as they see the sickly orange flames accumulate, not for me, when I spot fire my heart instantly boils with anticipation. I think the thing that excites me the most about fire is that all of the nightmares it creates can stem from one tiny spark.
Such a careless and oblivious action can initiate such destruction. Fire begins as something small and flickering, a slight hint and feeble gesture, once the flames grow it matures and burns into something deep and unquenchable. I am not sure of what exactly caused me to set the house on fire. Maybe it was just the fact that I have always been fascinated by fire and how it burns and welds together in desperation. Maybe it was deep, torturing anger that grew in my chest every time I saw him torture my poor Adara. Or maybe it was the gut wrenching capital vice of envy flooding my bloodstream and driving me into insanity.
I am certain many people will claim me as a”psychopath” for this crime. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and my name and face distorted with pixels will be sprawled across the tabloids with some remark about how “an insane man murdered his ex wife. ” Its pathetic. They shame me for doing whats right, for serving justice and destroying the real source of evil. His violence would have eventually obliterated her and I could not let that happen. People are such cowardstoo afraid to take risks to get what they want. Now my Adara is finally at peace. I can see her laying in front of me, like a frail flightless fledgling.
Her eyes are sealed shut by the bold burns from the flames that eliminated the pigment in her skin and abolished the oxygen from her veins. Her pretty little head lays there softly upon the damp soil and her pink lips are pursed gently, like a pure rose petal. Her pale, ghostly hand winds itself around the strands of grass that remain, clutching desperately as they engulf her thin wrists. Finally she is safe. He will not hurt her anymore. She is at one with nature-safe forever. The tree doesn’t sway anymore. Now it looms scarcely, watching over the chaos that it failed to prevent.
