The Fire at 1247 Browning

A fictional account of a fire as would be given in an interrogation.

 I was walking down Browning Drive.

 

I was just walking, really.

No intents or motives, just clearing my head and walking. I was just walking down Browning Drive.

It really didn’t matter that his house was on the corner; right on the corner of Browning Drive in number 1247.

It didn’t matter that he lived there, because I was just walking. No intents or motives, just clearing my head.

It didn’t matter that he lived there with a nineteen year old girl and our dog. Frankly I didn’t care that if I looked up I might see a silhouette of her perfectly shapely body in the moonlight against our fifty-five dollar faux satin finish curtains, her long thin index finger motioning for him to come near as her hips bounced back and forth to some song which I’ve undoubtedly heard at every intersection and stop sign today.

            It didn’t matter that he was going to lick drops of raspberry syrup off of her pierced belly button, or rub her down with lavender oil or play classical guitar as she fell asleep, because I was just walking down Browning Drive to walk down Browning Drive. I had no intents or motives. I was just clearing my head.

            So when I saw our four-post queen sized bed out on the well-groomed lawn of 1247 Browning Drive, still complete with its bed spread and dust skirt and that hand written “FREE” sign, I had no reason to feel rejected. I had no reason to stop. I had no reason to take anything from it or touch it, or cry, (which I no longer do for it is a waste of time) so I did not. I continued my walk down Browning Drive to Mullin Drive where I live.

            I didn’t feel much regret or anything, for all of the feelings I had now were simply a result of walking down a street I should not have. I blame only my notion to take my walk, and my feelings towards the bed on the lawn are only for the future owner of said bed for I’ve cause to believe the bed brings misfortune upon wedlock and monogamy.

            It is out of consideration for future owners of the bed on the lawn of 1247 Browning Drive that I set off again, not of my own accord. I had no regrets or feelings toward the man in the window or his oil soaked bride. My intentions were for the good of passers by interested in acquiring the bed.

            The gasoline I poured upon the chiffon comforter was unleaded. The matches were from Maurice’s, where he proposed to me, the scheming slob, not to call names, and the matches are but a coincidence, nothing poetic or symbolic because I see no use in such things, much like crying.

            I’d no intention for the house to burn as well.

It’s a tragedy that his oil soaked bride caught fire so quickly, a down right shame to see the curtains go. Quite lucky for the dog, that the back fence was open prior to the fire so he might escape. It is such a lucky coincidence that he found me as I was walking, and fortunate that I’d food and toys available still that he might use.

            What a terrible pity to see a lovely house such as theirs burn. I’d no intention of the house catching flame. It must have been the oils he had spilt upon the carpet, or the flammable nature of those curtains.

            I’d only hoped that one might never use the bed again.

I’d not meditated the fire mind you.

I was just walking, really. Just walking down Browning Drive

 

Author's Note

a brief exercise. just for fun really. let me know what you think of it.