Night School

He starts his work with an ax, smashing the safety glass until all that hangs from the black filaments are fragments that sparkle red beneath the lighted exit sign. He enters the room and pushes the desks together. With a little effort, the bookcase falls with a heavy thump and scattering of paperbacks, echoing in the hall. He pauses and listens, but surely no one else could be in the building.

He pries the name tag from the door, feels the rough, raised letters, and laughs silently at the sound of the name: Feldspar. He casts the plastic strip onto the pile of furniture.

Next, the gasoline from the hallway. It’s an old can, a metal can, a hand-me-down from his father. He douses the desks, the fallen shelves, and the wounded books. He shakes the can to chase free the last drops.

The can drops to the tiled hallway floor with an empty thunk. He fishes through his pockets, sure he had a lighter, but it’s gone missing.

A hand taps him on the shoulder, and the man turns in the darkness, surprised to see a fifteen-year-old face washed in the pale red of the exit sign. The other boys wear masks and carry plastic canisters.

The boy holds out a hand. “Need a light, Mr. Feldspar?”

__________

Yeah. I'm at school again...today is the first day of "meetings". I'm sure you can guess the inspiration for that little tale.