Page 119 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

If insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, then I’m nailing this sanity angle.

As I make my way back to the glass French doors to the patio, I take one last wistful glance at the ghosts drifting through the space that once swelled with boisterous laughter and men who willingly cradled my pain. Visions of the period party. Liam’s quick wit, mischievous grin, and dark web tutorials. Ty’s sweet hugs, our movie-character game, and easy banter. Gage’s nachos, his pledge to stay with me, his enthusiasm for my baked goods.

And Wells holding it together for all of us so those moments were viable.

The flick of a match.

The crackling spark.

A wheezing blaze devouring it all.

And vomiting ashes.

A satisfying whoosh resounds as the flames lick up—a balm cauterizing all the wounds they inflicted. And that’s the crux of it. No matter the motives—even if, in some twisted way, they believed this mindfuck was some form of safety, protection, or saving—they robbed me, allowing me to be tortured under the guise of nonsensical reasoning.

Standing on the patio, I heed the warmth. My nostrils flare, a tickle evoked from the sulfuric aroma of singeing, not unsimilar to our campfire nights, as the chill of the January air wars with the burn of my goodbye.

A final letting go. A disengaging.

My eyes look on with pride, the growing blaze stinging them into a squint, captivated by the scorching, melting, smoldering.

The flames writhe to curl with greed around the cabinets and drywall—painting a blackened and charred version of the hollowness they left me. A more accurate depiction.

The stone won’t burn. I like that.

To leave smoke stains and walls enclosing ashes. A shell of what was.

Of what isn’t.

A fortress of all that was stolen. Erased, if you will.

Ivy can be terribly difficult to eradicate after all. You might say I’m simply doing my part to accomplish what they began.

But the thing about burning ivy—the poisonous kind—is that those plumes of smoke release toxic spores, harmful to anyone who comes into contact with it.

They might not have factored that in.

It’s not as though they didn’t know who they were dealing with. They’d watched and studied me for five years, learning both my loyalty and my rage.

They pretended to be mine, to love me, to become my family, supplying them with ample time to understand exactly what I was capable of.

Whotheywere creating me to be.

It’s sad really. A massive oversight. And they call themselves the best.

Now, they’ll choke on the smoke of their own deceit.

The spores of their arrogance.

The air is toxic, boys.

I tuck in my hair, nice and tight, lowering the black ski mask and cinching my hood. Sifting through my bag, I find the drone, flying it high into the air to capture a pretty aerial view.

After I maneuver it above the house, I skip out to my artwork and light my ardent message. The whoosh isn’t nearly as dramatic as the house was, but the video will be. I fly my little filming spaceship around a few more times, pleased with the production.

My work here is adequately underway, so I gather my things, jump in the car, and cover the long stretch of road in a blur. Once the video is sent to Simone, I rest my burner phone on my thigh and settle in for my drive while I await the call.

Unsurprisingly, it comes within twenty minutes, hardly long enough for them to have watched my entire film, accounting for Simone’s delivery time. The ring stirs giddy flutters low in my belly. I flick the Answer button and lift the phone to my ear without a word.

---