Chapter #12 The Blood That Comes Before the Fire
Kimblee repeats it to himself in the darkness of his cell, as if he needs to correct a poorly told memory: that was not his first kill. The one in the alley—the bodies that flew apart amid gunpowder and alcohol—was only the first death he accepted without disguises. The real one happened that same day, hours later, when the fire no longer came from the street, but from inside his own home.
The night was already far gone when he returned. He walked unsteadily, his body heavy, his mind drifting between muted laughter and sluggish thoughts. He sipped his last beer in small, almost ceremonial gulps, rationing it as if it were a reward. From a distance, he saw the door standing open and a shadow moving violently inside. Then he heard it—the dull thud, the unmistakable sound of one body striking another. His mother stumbled out, and behind her came his father, as drunk as always, perhaps more so. He grabbed her by the arm and struck her without a word, as if it were a mechanical act—learned, inevitable.
Kimblee did not go inside. He did not shout. He did not run. He stayed outside, leaning against the wall, drinking the last of his beer while watching the scene as though it did not belong to him. He waited. He waited for his father to finish. He waited for silence to return, broken only by his mother's muffled sobs. In that moment, he felt no immediate rage, but something colder, heavier—a certainty slowly settling in his chest.
His father staggered outside and saw him there, just as drunk. He frowned, annoyed, as if his son's mere presence were an offense.
"Where the hell have you been?" he growled. "Go help your mother, you bastard."
Kimblee stared at him. There was no fear in his eyes, no submission—only exhaustion.
"Why don't you do it?" he replied, with a calm that did not belong to an obedient son.
The man fell silent for a second, surprised. This was new. This was not allowed. Surprise turned into fury, and fury into shouting.
"Now it's your turn, bastard," he roared.
He pulled out a knife. The metal glinted under the poor light of the doorway. Kimblee lowered his gaze for a moment and noticed the bulge in his pocket—the small bag of gunpowder he still had left. His lips curved slightly. Not in joy. Not yet.
"Well," he thought, "this will be interesting."
He poured the powder into one hand and, without hesitation, slapped his father across the face. The impact was sharp, almost insulting. The man staggered back a step, wounded more in pride than in flesh. Rage consumed him completely, and he lunged at Kimblee, knife in hand, without thinking.
Kimblee brought both hands together.
The explosion was not large. It was not beautiful. It was imperfect—contained, clumsy. His father's face was torn apart in fire and blood, and the scream that followed was not immediate, but drawn out, agonizing. A human scream. Fragile. Kimblee heard it all. Every second. Every note. And then he smiled. Slowly at first. Then he laughed—not out of happiness, but out of understanding, as if a piece had finally fallen into place.
The scream faded. The body collapsed. The knife clattered against the floor.
Kimblee stood there a few moments longer. He said nothing. He did not cry. He went into the house, passed by his father's motionless body and by his mother, who was barely breathing and did not dare look at him. He lay down on his bed, the smell of smoke and blood still clinging to his clothes, and closed his eyes.
He slept peacefully.
That night, without fully realizing it, Kimblee understood something fundamental: destruction does not always arrive with thunder. Sometimes it comes in silence, within the family, at home. And once that threshold is crossed, there is no longer any difference between the fire outside and the one burning within.
(End of the Chapter)