Never Forget the Past Paperback

She loved to watch things burn. Fire meant renewal. It allowed the old and useless items to be destroyed so new and worthwhile things could take their places. It was also cleansing. Sins could be erased in fire. The hot, searing heat held perfection and no mercy. No one could escape the fire’s wrath. Which was why it had to be done.

Some people believed that God doled out judgement, but the truth was that God was often too merciful. Too full of grace. He forgave people who didn’t deserve it. Therein lay the need for His angels. People who could witness the depravity of man or woman and take the necessary steps to cleanse the world. People like her.

She let the match burn to her fingertips, enjoying the heat that pulsed through her hand. Some angels preferred fancier ways to fulfill their duties. The news was littered with stories of shootings, drownings, some even used drugs, but she had always enjoyed the simplest way. A little gasoline and a match. All it took was an open window, a splash of gas, one strike, and the fire would lick the gas up in giant gulps. Flames would race each other to the top of the house and snake their way along the walls. She never had to be inside this way, but she always made sure they were. And she always struck at night when the blanket of deep sleep would keep them from escaping. So far, no one had escaped.

The match, a charred remnant of wood now, floated to the ground. When it landed, she placed the toe of her shoe over it and twisted, burying it into the dirt. She only ever left one. To leave any more would be tempting fate. Even the one she left was always a way back from the scene, but it was her homage, her thanks for being bestowed with this honor. Not everyone could do what she did, and she willingly bore the weight of her title.

As the flames licked higher, she stepped back into the comforting dark of the forest. The limbs of the trees reached out for her like arms of a mother, and the leaves hid her form so she could watch undisturbed. Watching was her favorite part. She thrived on the fear that graced each face that saw the fire, the terror that colored each voice as they yelled out orders or cried. Even the nervous bustling activity brought a smile to her face. But the best part by far was when the coroner arrived, and the body left the house in its black bag.

A finality existed just in the word black - its heavy feeling on the tongue and its abundance of thick blended consonants - but even more in the form of it. Zipped from head to toe, no more light poked into the bag. No more grace. Only darkness. A shiver of delight ran down her spine at the thought. Yes, that was her favorite part.

She settled against the tree and waited. It had been a long time, but finally, she was back.