He would be drunk that night. He would stumble up the stairs to his apartment, too wasted to notice the door to his apartment was standing ajar. He would stumble in and crash onto the couch, without knowing the entire apartment had been doused in gasoline. One lit match, the place would go up in flame. By the time the firemen arrives, it would be too late for him. The police would have me identify him. I would pretend to mourn, shed a few tears, and throw some dirt on his casket. This would be my best gift to him.
Each week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple hosts Friday Fictioneers where we’re challenged to write a piece of flash fiction in 100 words, more or less, based on the picture above.