Trigger

A cigarette flew out of nowhere, struck the ground. It was the last, worst luck that found her that night. To her, it was the end.

To the story, it is not the beginning, but certainly at least the first rising action.

She didn't drink - drinking didn't sit well with her medication. Neither did certain sugars, certain lifestyles, the significant amount of stress that she was under, and most of all, these drugs did not play very well with others. Least of all with the smooth white pill dissolving in her glass of water.

She didn't earn the first drink splashed on her. She might have earned the second - she didn't try to be a bitch, but getting soaked by some drunk idiot struck her as proof. Why be nice if you'd get the blunt end anyway? And so she said a few unkind words that didn't matter much, except to turn her from damp to doused in short order.

Now she was sure. Fate or hubris, it didn't matter. This was set to be a bad night. So when the nice young man asked her about her long and involved sleeves of red tattoos, she blew him off. He was trouble with a pretty smile - of course, she was right.

Fate had nothing to do with it, unless you believe in self-fulfilling prophecies - but it was one more thing. The smooth white pill, swallowed down in one smooth gulp that she'd forgotten by the time her glass hit the counter.

It took twenty minutes to get in and out of the bathroom, around and through the crowds, and out to fresh air and a smoke to ruin it with. Of course, her lighter wouldn't work. And no one else to save her, but the same bitch that she'd told off just a short time ago. She'd forgotten; the bitch had not.

She was tired, angry, and wet. She wasn't looking, just reacting and ready to leave. She didn't even see or smell the leaking motorcycle gas tank. The bitch was too drunk to know or care.

The gas should not have lit, but the vapor had a good, long time to rise up. There'd been a lull - the perfect song was playing.

She asked the bitch for a smoke. The bitch smirked, tried to look as nice as she could fake - and then she tossed her butt towards the woman's face.

She missed, but that was worse.

Everything was flashing light and sucking air. Vapor flew to gas, to climb up alcohol and fabric. Her hair caught like a firework and sure enough, her cigarette caught light.

And everything exploded.

To her, it was the end. The fire hurt, down into her bones. She closed her eyes.

But she was far from dead. The night was far from over.

And fate was far from done with her.