* * *
So much time to think. So little time to act.
Felicia stared at the wall opposite her, which was closer than she would have liked it, too close for comfort. She could recognize it had once been painted a stark, clinical white, although what it resembled most now was a myriad shades of grey and beige decorated liberally with streaks in a dozen sickly colors, as well as the occasional scratches and holes. She hated facing the wall like this, from morning until evening. She wanted to add her own personal impression by burning this place and adding soot-black to the schizophrenic mix on the wall of the prison cell.
There was nowhere else to look. Staring at her own hands made her restless because they weren’t meant to lie lifelessly in her lap but to work with fire, to caress icy skin, or to at least do something remotely useful.
There was a narrow strip of a window with black iron bars that provided an illusion of light and air. The cell itself was probably no more than eight by six feet big, enough to wander in tight circles until your head spun and you wanted to scream until your ears bled or your eyes popped out.
She suspected that after the trial and her conviction—she wasn’t harboring any illusions she’d wiggle free of this—her cell might resemble a room more closely, with probably a desk and chair or a television added to the bare necessities of bunk bed, toilet and sink.
Gazing at the door, frighteningly solid and equipped with a tiny opening for observation and handing over food trays, was an open invitation for claustrophobia to rule the day. The ceiling, astonishingly white and bright in contrast to the walls, as if someone had cut out the old one and installed a brand-new replacement, sported a single energy-saving light bulb and its plain, round lampshade, a fixed point to concentrate on whenever her head did spin and life slipped out of her still hands although they were curled into fists most of the time.
So much time.
If she wanted to end it all after several weeks—she hadn’t counted the days and there was no calendar in the cell—how would she ever last for years and years?
Felicia wouldn’t have to last so long. She’d find a way to escape a fate that would surely kill her in a slow and dreadful way… even if it meant choosing death in a faster and equally dreadful way. Her mind was made up, and the flames were sizzling underneath a veneer of brittle calm stretched to breaking point. She’d give it one try. She had to succeed. If she with her special talents couldn’t make it out, who could?
Was she guilty? If you measured things by their standards—the normal ones, the ones that counted—she was.
There was no more doubt on her mind that she had caused at least part of the fires she remembered being involved in, though none of the cases had been premeditated and executed with a clear mind. In her heart of hearts, she pleaded for not guilty. Couldn’t she be compared to a sleepwalker who woke up only after the crime was committed? Perhaps she could. Perhaps not, because wasn’t she claiming to herself and Joshua that she was the one in control? If she was, it meant she would have to take responsibility for everything connected to her and her fire, not only to selected moments and incidents she remembered.
Felicia might hate having so much time on her hands, but today she was willing to admit that it also had a positive side to it. How else would she have been able to think, question and understand? To plan and fear and hope?
First, she had been in shock. Mute, trembling inside, caught between "I should have known" and "this is so unfair" and a deep sense of betrayal.
On the first day in prison, her thoughts had revolved around Joshua. Had he told her a partial lie? Had he informed the police all along, although he claimed to have stopped so some time ago? She tried to wrap her head around the fact that he had vanished many times on purpose, to test her out or maybe let things run their normal cause or to incriminate her further.
An image swam in front of her inner eye, blurry yet shockingly clear, ignored and now impossible to ignore: the day she had stood in front of the police station, waiting for a taxi, spotting a tall, fair, slim person leaving the scene rapidly yet stealthily, hair more white than blond. Joshua? She wondered whether he had been there, watched her being drawn by the fire—or conjuring it without being aware of it—and throw herself into the burning house only to stumble out with the saved child in her arms. She asked herself why he hadn’t helped her, and reasoned that he had no way of helping, and she wouldn’t have needed or wanted any help anyway.
On the second and third day in prison, he had again been foremost on her mind while she forced down bland food, refused to speak to her lawyer or utter a word at the first appearance at court, and fell asleep only to be woken up by a nightmare full of car-sized spiders bouncing toward her on a million hairy legs while she fought to entangle herself from a giant, sticky, smelly web.
Felicia remembered their many moments of happiness, getting closer and having a first date. The fatal night where they had become one, only to be torn apart by his confession, and afterward take a timid step closer to each other again. Every moment had burned itself into her brain. Passion and bliss. Anger and fear. Confusion and understanding. Had he slept with her to draw out a confession? Had she been right to believe and trust him and make timid plans for a future together, far away from here where neither of them was safe?
On the fourth day in prison, she had woken up with unexpected clearness of mind, and decided not to count the days anymore, and not to waste her energy on the past.
She knew three things. First, she couldn’t stand to live out a sentence in prison. Second, she loved Joshua, although her feelings were buried beneath suspicion, and she wasn’t yet ready to scratch the surface and dig deeper. Third, she was and would always be fire, and she wasn’t and would never be normal.
There was only one thing to do, and she didn’t care whether it was right or wrong because it was the light in the dark, the flame that defied what might ruin her.