Born to burn

3. BURN FIRE BURN II. ____________________________

PHOENIX POV

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„So… we’ve got nothing to hold her on, sir.” My stepfather growls under his breath.

„You’ve got her f.ucking attitude.” The older one shoots him a look. One that says, you’re not helping, but it’s too late, because his rage is leaking through the walls like smoke again.

„I told you she’s lying. She was in that house. She’s been ungrateful from day one. Always f.ucking trouble, sneaking out, stealing, lying, and now you wanna tell me this little psycho just happened to be in the house when it caught fire?” His voice cracks with indignation, but I just sit there. Silent. Still. I don’t even flinch. Because what they don’t understand is that I’ve learned how to win in silence. Let him talk. Let him offense. They’ve got nothing. The social worker finally steps in. Calm. Thin-lipped. Trying to keep order in a room made of rot.

„We’ll file the official report, sir, but without evidence…” She glances at me, then back at him.

„We can’t pursue charges.” He goes still. That terrifying kind of still. Then he turns, spits on the floor, and storms out. No one stops him, and no one comforts me, so we just sit there. Me and my high stepmother Michelle. Ten minutes later, they hand me back my backpack. The same one I ran with. My hoodie was still half-covered in soot. My money still zipped tight in the lining. My mother’s photo, bent but untouched, like even fire knew better than to f***k with her. The social worker gives me a brittle smile.

„You’ll be returning with your guardians until further housing can be arranged. The relocation’s already been processed.” The woman from social services says it with a smile she probably practised in the mirror. I blink at her.

„No group home?” I ask, voice gravel in my throat. She shakes her head.

„There’s no legal reason to remove you. The fire’s under investigation, but without proof…” Of course, there isn’t one, right? Without bruises that count. Broken bones are visible enough to write a report about. Or evidence they want to see. It’s over again. They hand me back to him like I’m his again. Just as the social worker wants to speak again, my stepfather steps back in and takes my arm. Too tight. But this time? He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t grin. Because the flame that kissed his cheek scared him too, even if he doesn’t know how or why. Then we drive back in silence. My bag in my lap. My fingers curled tightly around the zipper. The weight of ninety grand pressed into my thighs like armour. The house is blackened. Windows boarded. The top floor fully collapsed. Ruin. The fire is long gone, but the firefighters are still lurking around, "investigating." So we just get out of the police car and get into his old rusty Toyota. They’re probably renting us a room at some cheap motel until the insurance pays out and the office finds another shithole to relocate us. The air still smells like smoke and guilt.

„You’re lucky.” Michelle mutters as we pull into the parking lot.

„Real lucky.” I say nothing. I just stare out the window at the cracked sign above the office door. No refunds, no exceptions. Fitting. We walk in. He walks purposely behind me and when the motel door clicks shut, I sit on the edge of the single bed. I’m not free. Not really. But the fire didn’t lie. It told the truth that no one else wanted to see. And next time? I won’t just dream it. I will f.ucking light the match if I have to. It’s silent for a while. The motel room stinks of bleach and old cigarettes. A single bed next to a queen-sized one. Two chairs. A lamp that flickers if you breathe too close to it. I squeeze my bag on my lap as my shoulders tense, like the walls might lean in and crush me if I relax. He doesn’t speak at first. Just paces. Bandage still clinging to his cheek, red soaked through the gauze. Then it starts, low. Hissing through clenched teeth.

„You think I don’t know what you did?”

I don’t answer, staring out the motel window.

„You think just because they didn’t find s.hit, that means you’re innocent?” He stops pacing and stares at me like I’m a stain he can’t scrub out.

„You lit that fire. I know you did. That little crap you pulled? What are you trying to do now? Trying to gaslight us, trying to play the victim, huh?” Still, I don’t move, don’t blink. Just let the silence eat his words. Because of the truth? I didn’t light it. Like, it’s not f.ucking possible. But something did and it wasn’t him, which eats him alive. He grabs a bottle of something cheap off the nightstand and takes a long swig, watching me the whole time. Waiting for me to flinch. Waiting for me to cry. To beg. I do none of it. I sit. Still. Eyes on the window. Ears tuned to the hum of the fridge trying to freeze air instead of food. Let him talk. Let him rot. Then he walks up to me. Slow. Like he thinks this is a scene in a movie where he wins. Like he’s earned this little power trip because the cops didn’t cuff him instead. He grabs my chin hard enough to bruise, yanking my face toward his.

„Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He hisses, breath hot with liquor and something rotten. I don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Just stare at the cracked vein in his eye and wonder how close I am to stabbing it open.

„You think you’re clever, huh?” His grip tightens.

„F.ucking s.martass little c.unt, walking around like your p*****.’s gold and your words don’t reek of lies.” He leans closer. Close enough for his spit to hit my cheek.

„You didn’t win, you hear me? That fire, that little act, you didn’t win.” I still don’t look at him. Until I do. Slowly. Deliberately. My eyes lift, one swollen, one burning clean. And the second our stares lock, he stutters. Just barely, but I see it. That twitch in his lip. That flicker in his gaze. And the disgusting lust rising through his rage like poison in water. He wants to hit me. To f***k me. Both. And can’t decide which order he’s more entitled to. But he doesn’t. Because my so-called stepmother is in the room with us. Audience. He doesn’t like that. Half-sprawled across the chair like a broken mannequin. Pupils are blown wide. Face pale under layers of patchy makeup.

„You’re lucky.” She barks suddenly, voice sharp and disconnected. Same f.ucking words she slurred in the car like a parrot in withdrawal.

„Real lucky.” She pops two more pills. Doesn’t even blink. Leans her head back against the chair like gravity’s become optional. She’s so out of it, I wonder if she even knows where she is. He curses under his breath and shoves me backwards onto the bed like I’m the trash he tripped over. Then, he doesn’t touch me again. Don’t look at me again. As he storms out and slams the front door behind him like it owes him silence. Good. An hour passes. Maybe two. I don’t move. Just lie there on the single bed with my arms over my chest, bag clutched tight like armour. I count heartbeats. I measure shadows. And then, the landline rings. He’s back before the second ring. Like he’s been waiting just behind the door. Pacing in silence. Rehearsing some victory that never came. He picks up the phone and grunts into it. I watch his face change. First, suspicion. Then… something sharper. Bitter. His jaw tightens. Eyes flick toward me like it’s my fault the air turned sour again. Disappointment. Rage. Contempt. It’s all the same face on him. He hangs up with a curse.

„F.ucking perfect.” He mutters. Then, he spits louder.

„F.uck! We’re leaving tomorrow morning.” He rubs his temples like the world’s been unfair to him.

„Office ward’s reassigning us. New house. Some government-paid dump again.” He spits the next words like they offend his mouth just to say them.

„Some other s.hithole. Great.” Then he’s gone again. Just like that. Door slams. Quiet returns. But I sit there, still. Silent. Only my hands move. And not move. They clench. Knuckles white. Fingers aching. Because wherever they take me next? They’re not bringing the same girl with them. That version of me? She’s already gone. I don’t know what’s gonna happen next. And the weirdest part? I’m not scared. I should be, right? But I’m not. I’m still. The air tastes like bleach and mould. Like old cigarettes soaked in secrets. Like rot pretending to be clean. The mattress groans beneath me every time I breathe, and my ribs join in like they’ve got something to say. I trace the constellation of bruises blooming across my side. A shitty little map written in purples and yellows. A map of what he’s done. What they’ve all done. And what I’ll never forget. My eyes are open. But I don’t blink. Not yet. Not while it’s quiet. Not while it’s mine. Because of nights like this? They don’t offer peace. They offer a sharp enough silence to cut yourself open on. Sleep doesn’t come easily for me. Never did. But lately? It’s not just the ache keeping me up. It’s something else. Something that started last night, right before the scream. Right before the sirens. Right before the world finally s.hut the f***k up. It’s not the heat I remember. Not the smell of smoke. It’s the feeling. Like the air changed. Like the room wasn’t just a room anymore. Like something, something moved. Not near me. Inside me. It was… God, I don’t know. Like being held and strangled at the same time. Like something old pressing against the walls of my ribs and whispering, Finally. It didn’t scream. It didn’t cry. It waited. Then it rose. Not rage. Not madness. Power. And maybe that makes me crazy. Delusional. Traumatised. I mean… look at my life. You’d lose your grip too. So maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just another broken girl hearing voices in her bruises. But somewhere deeper, deeper than the hurt, deeper than the fear, I know. I didn’t imagine it. And whatever it was? It burned the right things. Not out of vengeance. Not out of fear. It wanted justice. And it came from me. But that’s impossible. Isn’t it? I don’t believe in magic s.hit. Powers. Fate. Soulmarks. All of it? Bullshit. Fairytales for people too weak to accept the world for what it is. And yet… that feeling hasn’t left. It’s still here. I just hope they have a nice loony bin in the place we go… ’cause as it seems, I’m gonna need it.