Creg dropped the freshly emptied jerrycan, a menacing look upon his face. He slipped a plastic lighter out of his pocket, gave the hedge one last look over and crouched down to light the trail he’d poured to his feet. As he watched it burn he thought about all the things he’d never done in his short life. All the kisses that should have been his, all the love he’d lost, the hugs he’d never felt. This hedge that his father had died in, this hedge who had taken away so much. His father was only forty years old when he’d fallen in. Creg was holding his hand at the time, letting his fingers slip away for just a second to run ahead and kick a stone. Upon looking back Creg saw his father’s face contorted with pain, his hand clutching at his chest, he gasped a word from his beet red face but Creg was too far away to hear. And then he fell, as if in slow motion, into this horrid hedge, taking Creg’s childhood with him.
And now the flames licked up into the sky, filling out with the anger Creg felt subside. He turned from the spectacle, tears streaming from his tiny old-man’s face and ran. He had no where to run, all he had was a picture in his mind of the perfect life and as fast as his legs could carry him.