I look at the clock, figuring that I have around nine minutes before the sun starts to rise. I gather my supplies gingerly; vodka, shot glass, matches, kerosene. I go out the front door, first, setting my drink on the edge of the doorstep and shoving the matches into my pocket as I balance the kerosene on my hip once more. I straighten up and head into the house with the jug of golden fire, ascending the stairs.

            I start where I know her room is; last door on the left. It’s just as I remember it, like the rest of the house I’ve come to hate. I look down at my prize, and consider aborting the mission for something less violent, like Aiden suggested. I can take up painting, or pottery, or something else to stop the anger from consuming me. Something else they told me about in therapy, in anger management. But I know the anger won’t leave. Not unless I burn her house.

            I will sleep easy tonight.

            I unscrew the cap, setting it on the nightstand. I lift the bottle to my face, inhaling the kerosene perfume. It smells lovely. I douse the bed in it, relishing in the smell. I keep the jug tipped as I walk, trailing the liquid down the hallway. I splash each door with the golden fire, forming images in my head as I predict how they will burn. Going down the stairs, there are drops of gold following me. I am magic. This is Oz, and I am making the yellow brick road that Dorothy will follow. With her, she will bring the creaking tin man, the groans of machinery as the house collapses, and the lion, blazing, fiery mane, burning the house that fell on the wicked witch.

            The kerosene stains the rugs as I tip the bottle a little more. I splash it on the kitchen counter, bathe the cabinets in it, and nearly empty my jug of golden fire on the family room couches that once held family. They hold them no more. Soon, they will hold a family of flames.

            It is when I reach the main entrance and trail the kerosene out the door that I look at what remains. Just enough to soak the door in. I allow myself one last, lingering sniff of the perfume before I thrust it at the open door, finishing the job. Kerosene splashes into my shot glass, mixing with the remaining vodka. I frown, tossing the empty jug into Oz as I pick up my bottle of vodka and kick the shot glass through the doorway. It smashes at the foot of the stairs, finally triggering the grin that’s been trying to break out on my face for the past twenty minutes.