Ripping open boxes, he found matches then, swaying on his feet, he pulled out a single match. He walked outside and stared at the supplies and at the shelter. His vision blurred. Rage controlled his tight grip on the match. It controlled the defiant flare of his nostrils and the striking of the match against the box. Rage controlled Cole’s hand as he drew back paused for a split second and then flipped the lighted match inside the shelter.
The gas ignited, and flames spread quickly into a steady blaze that crept over the boxes. Yellow flames turned orange and red, then burned with streaks of blue. As the fire became an inferno, Cole tried to swallow the bitter taste that had come into his mouth.
Cole stared sullenly into the fire, then let his gaze wander. He had wanted revenge but felt little joy from this act. Overhead, eagles drifted on the air currents. In the bay, a mother seal played with her spotted pups as a golden sun peeked through the gray overcast and glinted off the waves. “This place sucks!” Cole mumbled as the breeze drifted sparks upward like wandering stars. He stared back into the crackling red-hot flames and his anger burned.
Cole rocked back and forth on his feet. Nobody cared about him. Nobody understood him. Nobody knew what it was like living with parents who wished he wasn’t alive. It angered Cole when people pretended they did. His parole officer was one of those people.