written by: R.C. Gibson
Hatred is like ash. A blackness that infects us one by one. The dust touches every part of me, so that I cannot wash it away. I smell it in the air. I feel it under my skin. A hidden heat below my surface. I burn with this restlessness. I cannot sleep for it. The hatred fills my dreams. It fills my belly when I am hungry.
As we form our plan, I feel the excitement bubbling away inside of me. I taste the salt of anticipation on my lips.
Stars ignite the black sky. It is silent, except for our whispers. It hasn’t rained for weeks; it takes mere seconds to start the flame.
It licks at the timber, and dances its way upwards. Cracking. Nibbling. Glowing. The paint peels away. The smoke becomes thicker as the flames breed, spread quickly, and bite away at the building.
Cries from within. Shouting.
I know I should run, but I feel hypnotized. I feel the heat through my clothes. Warming. Soothing. Ash floats over my pale skin. Revenge is like ash. A blackness that engulfs the manor house.
- Peasants’ Revolt - February 5, 2022