Standing with my hand on the stairway, I can almost taste the flames. The metal banister is hot, blistering, but I don’t care. It’s a sense of realism, a connection to this event. I tighten my grip.

The flames are a masterpiece, licking at the walls, trying to feed their hunger and spread their glory. It’s such a pretty picture, a glorious mix of hues, that I almost wish I had a canvas and paints or a camera. Such beauty should be caught, not lost.

I can smell the smoke as it spirals upwards like a tornado, less damaging but somehow just as harmful. It tickles my throat. I giggle nervously, and then cough on the fumes. Maybe they’re toxic. I can’t bring myself to care.

There’s no sound but the crackling of flames. There are no screams. It’s night, the time of slumber. I don’t think anybody’s sleeping now, as the flames illuminate the sky like flickering torchlight, giving off a pleasant amount of light.

None of the people here should be asleep now. There were leaflets pushed through doors, once upon a time, ill-worded threats and house deals. Pressure to leave. Most did, except one couple and their children.

The couple are out for a meal, a well set-up cherade to prepare for this moment. A place to give me my opportunity of a lifetime, for new beginnings and for the glory and hope that they’ll bring. The fire, the burning of a heart and its eternal love. The burning of the past. I used to squat in doorways, here, once upon a time. Yesterday. A lifetime ago.

In my head, I hear crying. There are people in cages, resenting change to an extent where they cannot live their life. The secret is to adapt. Sometimes, people just need a little… push.

Helping people live their life is no crime.

There are heroes everywhere. Your hero will not be mine. There are shouts now. They aren’t professionals – everyday people living their everyday lives, only not. People will their chance to shine, throwing water in some desperate attempt to save this desolate old building, to stretch themselves stupidly in order to ruin the picturesque sight.

It makes me mad.

The flame is feeling out the bottom of the stairway now. It will come up. The light switch above my head suddenly disconnects on one side, swinging in the hair haphazardly with the cables sparking. The smoke is choking me, and I crouch down, coughing onto the floor. My throat is as dry as parchment.

I smile.

The fire seems to be sizzling, but maybe I’m imagining it. The water is a slight concern, though – it will create more smoke and obscure the fire, the view that makes all this worthwhile, that makes this restart so special.

I grope for my pocket, curling my hand around the packet of matches. I take one and strike it, relishing in the sound. For me, it’s as welcome as a heavenly bell. I throw the match into the flames. After another seconds thought, I chuck the rest of the box and its contents down there too.

I can practically count down the seconds until this existence is over, until my beautiful vision is ended, but it’s not enough. I want to see the flames properly. Close up. From inside. Their beauty is so compelling…

I force myself up, still wheezing. It will all be over in a few seconds, I know. I plaster a grin onto my face. For me, this has some meaning. It is a much-wanted fate.

I rush at the flames, throwing myself at everything that they have to offer. Blissful pain, then after a moment, everything goes away.