The scrape of the match against the friction strip, the pop as it bursts with flame, the whoosh of the fire as it comes alive and consumes. As the fire burns, his memory replays the earlier sounds of pain and fear.

He recalls the tremour in her voice as she pleaded for her life, the unique pitch and quality of each cry as he tortured her. The exquisite music of life and death

For one fine moment he allows hi himself to admire the drama of the tableau. He allows himself to feel the heat of the flames caress his face like tongues of desire.

He closes his eyes and listens to the sizzle and hiss, breathes deep the smell of roasting flesh. His go goal is in sight. He has a plan, meticulously thought out, to be excuted with perfection.

His name will live in infamy with all the great ones -- Bundy, Kemper, the Boston Strangler, the Green River Killer. The press had already given him a name: The Cremator.
It makes him smile. It makes him proud. He lights another match and holds it out just in front of him, studying the flame, loving the sinuous,sensuous undulation of it. He brings it closer to his face, opens his mouth, and eats it.

Then he turns and walks away. Already thinking of next time.

Murder

The sight burned its impression into the deapths of her memory, into the backs of her eyeballs so that she could see it everytime she blinked away the tears.