The Beauty of the Beings We Love.

The setting sun is a breathtaking sight, especially when it's laced with fire. At nine years

old, I stood there mesmerized, watching the place I once called home scorch the ground with

most of my family still inside. I could barely register the sound of mom calling for me over the

rest of the noise. I could hear the fire crackling and the house collapsing. I could hear the sound

of fire trucks and police sirens. Screaming, my little brother is screaming for me from my

mother’s arms. I can hear him calling for my father and the rest of our siblings that never made it

out of the house. As mother grabbed my wrist I continued to stare at the burning house. It was

beautiful, probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And I was its creator. The blazing

flames blended perfectly with the reds and golds of the sunset, it was even better than I had

imagined. I love those colors you know? Shades of red and gold mixing and clashing in an

entrancing dance.

When I was 12 I watched my little brother bleed out on the bathroom floor. His crimson

blood sprayed and pooled on its golden tiles. I myself was covered in the stuff, it was but a small

price to pay to achieve what I desired. My hands shook when I was holding the knife, but not

from fear or frustration. It was from pure excitement. The adrenaline of creating what I thought was a masterpiece at the time. I discarded the knife on the bathroom floor and calmly dialed the

police. In a faux shaky and scared voice I told the operator how a man had broken into the

apartment and killed my brother with a knife. I told her that I had been on my way home from

the store when I saw him break in and that I had run as fast as I could but by the time I made it

there the man was gone and my brother was dead. I told her to hurry, what if the man came

back? They arrived and told me how lucky I was to be alive. My mother arrived soon after and

wept as they wheeled my brother's body out under a white sheet. For months the people of the

town whispered about how they felt bad for us. First my father and siblings in the house fire and

now the murder of my brother. It was only my mom and I left. After that she started to shut

down, but I didn't care.

When I was 15, I watched the fear rise in my mother's eyes as she was slowly buried

alive. Her scarlet silk dress striking against her shimmering gold jewelry. It was magnificent, but

I needed more. I slowly piled the dirt on top of her, leaving her face exposed as long as possible.

I wanted to see more of that exquisite expression. The one she wore as she realised she would

die, when she realised that it was me. That it had always been me. I bathed in the feeling of

finally being recognised for the work I had created. But yet, it was not time for me to be caught. I

had yet to create my ultimate masterpiece. My call to fame one might say. I had it all planned

out. As soon as I had finished burying her I began to plant the red and yellow tulips I had

purchased the day before. It was the picture of the perfect garden. I cleaned myself up and

headed to my room to retrieve the note I forged in my mother’s handwriting. It spoke of how she

could no longer bear to stay there. That after my brother’s death she started losing it and that she

had to leave. I cried over the note to make sure my tears stained the delicate paper. As I set the paper on the counter, I picked up the phone and called the police. I told them how my mother

had run away and left a note, how she abandoned me when she was the only one I had left. The

search for my mother went on for weeks before they finally gave up. The whole time I carefully

tended to my garden, telling everyone how I had planted it for her just mere hours before her

disappearance. “Tulips had always been her favorite, and red and yellow were her favorite

colors'' I'd wept to one particular officer who questioned my upkeeping of the garden. And just

like the rest, a look of pity swept across his face. He was a fool, they all were! I couldn’t blame

them though, my acting skills were perfect but couldn’t they see it was I who killed them? But I

didn’t want them to know, not yet at least.

With no other family to watch over me, it was the nice old lady down the street that

took me in. She told me she pitied me, I had lost my whole family at such a young age to a series

of unfortunate accidents. I lived with her for three years until I stumbled upon the perfect

moment. The recognition I rightfully deserved would soon be mine. The stage had been set and

the actors in place, the curtain was about to rise on my masterpiece.

When I was 18, I witnessed a massacre. This slaughter occurred at the hotel I had been

staying in when the old woman I was living with took me on an impromptu vacation for my

birthday. It was the perfect setup! The reddish hue of the cheap hotel lights cast on the golden

colored wallpaper lining the halls, the unsuspecting guests moving in and out of their rooms. It

was finally my time! When the old woman was resting I drove down to the local supermarket

and picked up a few household items needed to orchestrate my plan. After arriving back at my

hotel room I proceeded to put on the small breathing mask and mix the chemicals in small jars.

As I wandered the halls, I carefully placed the jars in the vent openings along the way. Once finished with setting up the jars I continued pacing the halls, watching as the confused guests

entered the halls stumbling and coughing. After some time there was no more movement from

the numerous bodies lining the passageways. It was perfect, just as I had imagined! This was my

masterpiece, this was how I would be introduced to the world! I wandered the hotel admiring my

work for some time before the FBI showed up in gas masks and armour. As they yelled at me to

get on my knees, I smiled calmly and removed my mask. My face was a sheet of serenity amidst

the chaos that surrounds me. The ground danced and swayed beneath my feet. I carefully

watched everything fade black as the men rushed me. I clutched in my hand the note I wrote

explaining everything. About how I set the fire, how I stabbed my brother, and the exact location

of my mother’s body under my beloved flower bed. With this note the whole world will finally

recognize the beauty of all my creations. The beauty of the beings we love.