He stood in the doorway, looking back at the mess he’d created. Papers scattered about the floor, electronics smashed, furnishings torn and the smell of gasoline filling his senses.
This used to be his home from home. His safe-haven, but now? Now it was all just noise. A collection of stuff that haunted his dreams and gnawed at his waking hours. He picked up the can that leant against the torn burgundy sofa cushions.
Mementos of this life crunched and cracked under foot as he walked, once more, through the rooms; stinging reminders of days past that punched his stomach and whispered vile thoughts.
The trail of petroleum followed him, always one step behind.
He walked through the open front door, eking the last few drops, before tossing the redundant canister. He reached into his top pocket, removed a silver lighter and stood facing the bullied building.
Silently, it begged for mercy.
He turned and began to walk away. This was his Hollywood moment.
His thumb pressed down against the thumbwheel. The flame sparked into life.
“Paul. Paul?” a voice he knew, shook his soul.
“Paul, are you gonna be long, mate?” He looked down at the sheets of paper in his hand. The ‘bin full’ light of the shredder blinking furiously, and Jeremy from accounts huffed, impatiently.
