Matt was only eight, so the throw wouldn't have needed much strength. Matt didn't look at all like his mother, but he had her voice, and since it hadn't broken yet, he always had her soft lilt, despite usually being pissed off or crying. As soon as he realised where he was, flames crackling and circling him like predators, blocking off the only exit faster than he thought possible, the boy sunk down the wall, staring at the fire that was so bright it hurt his young eyes, quivering. He wouldn't call for help. Damien wouldn't even try get him anyway - he was just another rag to be burnt, a remnant of the mother he never knew. Even if the fire had been reported and responded to, they wouldn't reach him in time. He had seconds before his clothes caught on fire. He looked his father straight in the eyes, looking almost completely identical, full of hatred, and spat out "I hate you and your miserable guts, I hope you rot in hell where mama will never see you."