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Michael had always been a firebug.
From the moment sentience struck him, the eldest Afton had made known his unnatural affinity for flames. Captivated by the dancing wicks of candles and the crackling roar of their eternal fireplace, he’d sit for hours on end and simply watch the tango swaying and swerving before his very eyes…bright, lively, and impossibly breathtaking. Candle wax would be gutted under a flame’s burn and logs would be snapped amidst untamed conflagrations.
And Michael—innocent, untainted, and trustful—would remain entranced by that sultry danger mere breaths away, always staring…Always yearning to study, skim, and caress that ethereal yet ephemeral blaze.
Label it a fascination with elements capable of destruction…of ashy decimation yet charred, soot-stained beauty; his mother claimed that to be the case when she—after scouring the house for her boy aged six years—discovered him fiddling and flicking his father’s lighter in the corner of his office.
No damage had been sustained to either property or person, though Mrs. Afton had been swift in slighting her son’s possession of the hazardous firestarter, fearful of William’s potential discovery of the incident. Yet it was then—once waterworks had sprung into Michael’s eyes and a cry scratched at his throat—that she’d crouched down with a placating sigh, held his hands, and murmured the words which forever imprinted themselves upon his heart:
“Fire can be beautiful, Mikey…very, very beautiful…but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous. Danger will always be danger, and in its presence, you have to be careful.”
But how? Michael yearned to inquire as he watched Father weld shimmering steel…
…witnessed birthday candles sparkle for Elizabeth…
…and beheld coagulated wax glistering at Evan’s bedside.
How could fire be dangerous?
For years, Michael mulled over the notion—the accusation—that the one constant in his ever-hellish life could be harmful. If anything, it seemed that he was the dangerous wildcard, for it was not a flame which splintered his brother’s skull; it was him. It was not an inferno which spurred his sister’s demise; it was his encouragement of rebellion against Father’s warning.
And it was not fire which incited his parent’s divorce…triggered the mysterious disappearance of Father…and provoked Ennard’s possession of his very own putrid flesh and spoiled marrow; it was him. He and his mutinous subservience which sheerly angled his life into hellish demolition and ruin.
And Michael—sinful, blemished, and cynical—stood numbly before the Afton’s neglected, antique mirror, examining each peeling flake of his flesh…every sharp, sunken feature of his purpled dermis. By soft candlelight, he bandaged necrose tissue, clotted the ichor oozing into his disemboweled gut, and secured rotting strips of perished skin.
For though he hungered ignorance to his newfound fate…desired the dreamless slumber of Death…and craved the release of his bound remnant…
…the eldest Afton’s time was not quite finished. Now that he knew the truth, it could not be finished.
Not until all the known lives snuffed by William were freed of their eternal bonds.
Not until retribution was served to father by son and by son alone.
Not until he—Michael Afton—fulfilled his purpose: scathing, scorching, and searing the man turned monster. The devouring wildfire he should have been warned against—should have realized was the real danger all along.
The Man Behind the Slaughter: his father.
…
Michael had always been a firebug, but perhaps his adoration for fire and flames alike did not stem from a pyromanic intrigue.
Perhaps it was a foreword of destiny and purpose—a siren’s call—which drenched the pizzeria in gasoline and drove that all-too familiar lighter into his hand…
…for what better way was there than both father and son to blister, blacken, and burn in Fate’s fair flames?
After all, it was Father who warned against playing with fire…and played with fire he had.