7. Nick
SEVEN
NICK
I started the fire.
I pushed.
I provoked.
Fanned the flames.
Poured gasoline on it.
Found it funny.
It’s revenge.
I enjoy it.
Revel in it.
Every hitch in his breath.
Every quiet comment designed to make him react.
Every step closer than necessary.
Every time he says my name like it’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.
Every time his pulse jumps when I stand too close.
Every skittish, wide-eyed look.
I like those looks.
Those moments of confusion.
Those moments of what is happening to me.
The uncertainty.
The uneasiness.
The moment he understands that I see it. All of it.
That I know.
That I can read him like a book.
I built this inferno.
Branch by branch.
Glance by glance.
Touch by “accidental” touch.
He thinks it’s just happening to him.
But it’s happening because of me.
Because I want it to.
Because I want to see how far he’ll go.
How far I can push before he snaps.
I watch all of it with slow satisfaction.
It’s not happiness. Not exactly joy, or triumph.
Not pleasure or warmth.
Just a dark, grim click inside my chest.
I can do this to you. I can make your pulse jump. I can make you hate the way you react to me.
It doesn’t feel good. But it feels powerful. It feels like taking some control back from the way his existence has messed up my life.
It’s a game, and I will win.
Because I’m not stepping back.
And if it all grows out of control?
At least I know I struck the match.