
Guillotine
No one was awake.
The living room was bathed in the soft, inviting glow of the scented candle that wafted an intoxicating cinnamon scent through the air. A small girl stood silently, clutching the light source to her with one hand, while scooped to chest she held a bottle of pure alcohol and a match.
The girl dithered as a sudden pang of guilt mingled with nerves struck her. Some beads of perspiration formed on her forehead, and slowly trickled down it. She was quaking, her eyes filled with panic, but an almost unfelt tickle of a phantom grip touched her shoulder delicately. Her sombre face shone by the dim illumination, and she nibbled her lip.
Then, with a surge of energy and defiance, she placed the candle and match neatly on the table, unscrewed the large bottle and threw its contents all over the carpet and furniture. The room reeked with the strong, sour smell as she lifted the match and struck it alight. A fluttering flame appeared, burning brightly, and it was with that that she lowered it to the edge of the sofa.
The flame took a while to catch on into a raging torrent of blazing fire but
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