Destruction. - 30 min

They went up there, in the mountains, with the small car empty but for the two of them.

They parked right next to the lodge, alone in the woods above the village.

They started by emptying the rooms of the few furnitures that were there. A couple of stuffed chairs smelling of dead ashes, no space for a couch. A table that could be unfolded to support eight plates full of potatoes, cheese, ham and the same amount of wine glasses. They smashed the glass plates in the backyard, the pieces bursting without harming the old tree that stands there, isolated from his ones by a patch of yellow grass. They will cut him down too, eventually, when they re done with the house.

The large bed of the main bedroom, with its mattress too soft, his ugly cushions, went through three doors before reaching the fore that was awaiting him out in the garden. They started it like any regular chimney-fire, using the logs they had to get rid of. A sort of last minute hommage. They threw by the window and through the upper-access door (it was built in the mountain slope) the few mattresses that were lying directly on the floor. Some sleeping bags followed, souvenir from the grand-parents hikes, when they were still alive.

The fire outside was getting bigger. The pillows thrown in were spitting small white and brown feathers in the warm air above the flames. Last snow on the house.

The rooms were empty, the air smelled more smoky than usually.

They went onto the roof and took of one by one the stales they stood on, making exploding noises on the floor that lingered in front of the house as they were thrown there.

The flames were reaching the branches of the old tree. It bursted in flames in a few minutes thanks to his dead automnal leaves.

They jumped of the roof. Nothing more to do but to wait. They got into the car, stepped back.

The burning giant felt onto the roof-less house, smashing it, sharing its flames with the wooden frame that held the house in one piece.

It was gone.