Sorrow was her middle name. When she entered the old, stinky place where she worked, through the old granite shaft with its worn stair step, she could see the reason why it should be there in front of her beautiful surname that was put together of two words. The name of a flower and an old, foreign word for mountain.
Everyday she went through the ashes in the underground pit and found bones that she and her colleagues would later put together like a macabre jigsaw puzzle to make it possible to bury the poor, centuries old victims of the massacre. The job had been in the family for as long as anybody could remember, and the middle name had been there for just as long.
In the evenings she planned her arson on public buildings, and once in a while you could see her with a can of incendiary fluid and a dark outfit with a hood. Sometimes she attacked the police with a steel rod.
When she, in periods of her life, felt more calm she poisoned the river with household chemicals or went for a long stroll down to the garbage site where she would sit for long hours looking into the grey mist.
Her first name was Fire.
