creative writing rs

D//E Fiction: Pyromaniac


The following story was written purposely for inclusion in the August  creative writing section. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Pyromaniac. noun. a person suffering from pyromania.

   That morning, he was in desperate need of a close shave and as he wandered past a newly refurbished barber shop before work to learn what they offered. It was a small dark salon located on the top floor of the market place, and it had been situated there for roughly about one month. Men and women went there for cuts and general beauty services which included; haircuts, trims, cut-throat shaves were all provided on site. Inside was your typical salon; illuminated mirrors, magazines, clippers, scissors, gels and salon chairs. The establishment was owned by Madam G, as she liked to be known, a pseudo name perhaps.

   The owner was the equivalent of a Barbie doll with tattoos. She had a chest-piece, that was made up of a large intricate sparrow with smaller baby ones surrounded by flames and various other quotes moving all along her shoulders.

   “So, what can I do you for sir?”

   Said the intriguing lady to the man who just walked in. He told her that he just came in for a shave, a close one at that, he exclaimed laughing. She invited him into the chair, putting the cloak carefully on him and a towel round his neck. He made himself comfortable in the chair, while straightening up his back. She leaned into him and titled his head back into the chair. He felt a nervousness come over him, but he felt comfortable and trusting of her. Usually the man closed his eyes during such experiences, but he felt drawn to watch her while she worked. He took a closer look at her tattoos and the level of detail was incredible. There were flames coming off one of the designs on her chest-piece tattoo and as he looked closer, he could see that each one had a detailed timeline drawn out from one to the other, almost like a family tree.

    “My family Sir, we’ve had this certain trait in us for generations. For years we’ve worked hard at our anonymity, to protect the truth.” Said the lady.

   He had no idea why she was telling him this, or what she was even talking about, but he felt somewhat intimidated by her presence now and inclined to listen. She was a strong woman and he was never going to question her.

   “My family has always burned. It is what we do. It’s in our blood and we’ll never stop.”

   Said the woman as she raised the bottle of Aloe Vera and poured it all over his face and down his body. It was at that moment, the shocking realisation came with a deep chill. He shuddered in fear and a cold sweat began to run down his face. The smell, it was obvious that this was Alcohol and not Aloe Vera at all.

   “My family has always murdered.”

   Said the the lady. She walked away and he began to struggle, but it was too late, she’d already struck a match, tossing it over her shoulder and onto his lap.

   He endured the horrific flames, the pain was excruciating. His flesh burned down through layer after layer until it was no more and it was all over. The woman threw a towel over the whole body to distinguished the flames in a timely and almost expert-like manor.

© 2014 R.S / Destroy//Exist.

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