We were from a small town.
We lived in a small house.
Quaint, quiet, and flammable.
I bet it was flammable.
There was only one way to satiate my curiosity.
I knew it, too.
It's not like they were ever home.
I was sure they wouldn't be home.
And I knew they wouldn't find out who did it.
Surely, they wouldn't suspect their own child.
Surely they wouldn't.
If they were idiots.
They weren't idiots.

On that dark night, I escaped that burning house.
I escaped the screams that enveloped me at night, and became free of the pain that held me hostage.
It was a terrible keeper.
And it still is, to this day, though it leaves me in the comfort of myself more often.
Now I know how abused housewives feel.

On the corner of the street where that once burning house lay, there once lived an old man.
Though all the neighborhood kids were sure he haunted this past home.
And he surely was a kind old man, though I'm sure he must have been young once, no one could seem to remember when that was.
With my doubts I suspect that in his last years he also could not remember a time in his youth, perhaps because of his memories withering away in time along with his frail body.

Not to be led off any more, for I'm sure you'd like me to get to the point, he was a kind old man, and I was sure he wouldn't mind my sharing his house for a few days.
Or weeks.
I really only meant for it to be days, but the house was so nice that I couldn't bear to leave.
The old man was more than kind enough to welcome me into his home and offer me anything in the house.
Something told me the man would like me to stay as long as I'd like, I was welcome anytime.
He really was a kind old man.

I departed from that welcoming house on a warm sunny day, much unlike the former escape act.
I was sure they were waiting for me out there, I expected it.
My expectations were right.