Burning.

linda radebe.
3 min readMay 28, 2020

The auburn emissions of the setting sun crept into a dimly lit living room, the rays illuminated an old flat screen covered in dust, the dust blended in perfectly with the colour scheme of the living room: The old used-to-be-white-and-now brown sofa overturned against the right side of the wall, and a hideous hand me down brown sofa on the left side that survived three families but how would it fair against the end of the world.

I stood in the middle of the room; my face covered with a skull-printed black face mask on it. My right hand began shaking — the shaking began shortly after my 26th birthday which was somewhere in February 2020. it’s an undiagnosed symptom of something serious, I’m sure. I never got the opportunity to check it out, because who has the time to check out their shaking hand when they’re fighting an enemy that is unseen and could literally kill you at any moment? Since my right hand was shaking, I had to use my left hand to pick up the one liter bottle of paraffin on the floor. I tossed the bottle’s contents all over the room, staining the walls that held the sounds of my family’s voice with clear liquid even the sofa’s that held molds of our backsides were stained and that distinct paraffin smell covered the room, I threw the bottle outside where it joined eight others.

The body of my mother, tall and slim lay on the floor next to the fridge with her shoulder length weave stained with blood slowly oozing out of her eyes, ears and mouth. Kill shots from the virus — an expert marksman that never fails to kill its targets, which is us. My mother always said that she’d die in this house, the one true thing she had built for herself. The house protected her from abuse and heartbreak, it held her as she healed and now it’s final resting place. She always said “I’m only living for you kids and this house”… I smile at that memory because it takes back to a time when the virus was just a joke that everyone thought they’d forget in a few months, it’s been years now.

With a single stick I was about to disinfect my childhood home from the virus for good.

The coarseness of the match striking the box ignites a violent flame, closing my eyes I breathed in and let out a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry” I whispered.

The match fell to the floor that had no tiles and the yellowish flames meet the clear almost-dry paraffin liquid on the floor. Just like magic a yellow-orange with hints of blue flame appeared and spread across the room in a fit of rage, engulfing everything in its path, but there was something calming about it. Paper was no match for it, plastic melted under its heat and wood turned black, scorched. The intensity forced the materials of the house to morph their shape and burn.

The sun’s rays blended gently with the colours of the flame. As the flames rushed towards me, I took one last breath before I became disinfected. A voice called from the outside. I turned covered in fire to look outside.

And there he was, Kenny, screaming “I’m here now.” And I dropped to my knees, and without fear I closed my eyes and smiled knowing that I’m dying after seeing the most beautiful view, his face.

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linda radebe.

mongrel in the shade || i write and stuff || creative™ ||