#qcstart

Cathair casually skipped down the neighborhood with a back pack strapped on, and animal plushies strapped to the fabric by the necks. The night was quiet, dead really, not that he cared much, filling the spaces of emptiness with the sounds of his steps and nursery songs. He reached a black convertible with white lining, a car he’d once spent too many nights in staining the seats and begging for more at the hands of a menace in sheeps clothing. The memories tasted sour, like acid, but they didn’t alter his mood. In the end, they enhanced it, really. In some form or the other, knowing that those memories, along with many more--some sour, some sweet, some tainted red with rage, betrayal and eternal bloodlust, would soon be gone by this time tomorrow morning. He pulled out an entire, cracked, but mostly in tact tea set from his back pack. “I’m a lil’ tea cup, bloody and cut,” he sang, pouring the kerosene and lighter fluid into the teapot graciously. He poured out three cups, one for himself, one for his boyfriend, and one for his past self, the child that died months ago thanks to misplaced trust. One buy one, he poured the teacups over the surface of the vehicle, one on each extremity, before picking the lock of the car and chucking Ms. Dyna The Teapot into the car. “This is my candle.” A lighter, one fluid flick and sweet destruction erupts with a teasing kiss of heat. Cathair moved back a few steps, grabbing his backpack and chucking the lighter with a smile as the car lit up like a Christmas tree in February. “This is my butt.”