I was five years old on the night I became an orphan. And it wasn’t until twenty-five years later that I learned why.
Fire is very humanlike.
It has humble origins—a spark, no bigger than a fingertip. And then it grows. Innocent, at first, but often becoming moremalisious—malicious as it develops. Anger will cause it to fume and swell. It will consume land greedily but will never be full nor truly satisfied. It is capable of taking life, of causing pain, but also capable of creating.
Very much like humans, yes?
Well, perhaps notallhumans. But many of them.
I was a babe when I first found myself entranced by a dancing flame. I did not understand what it was, or what it could do. The bitter cold had been rattling my bones all day, and the flame offered warmth.
I stretched my hand out, hoping to bring its heat closer.
Touching it, of course, only led to pain. The firerevenishly—ravenously devoured my skin. I cried, shaking my hand, but the flame refused to give up its meal. Until my mother doused it with water.
The burn on my palm had taken weeks to heal, and I gave fire a wide berth after that.
Until it became a part of me.
I never felt another burn. Instead, I incinerated others. Hundreds—nay, thousands had died by my hands over the years. Some deserved their painful demise. Most were innocent.
Am I remorseful? Of course. But it’s a rather pointless emotion; it won’t bring them back.
Perhaps you think me a monster. And perhaps I am. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I am notrighting—writingthis to receive absolution.
Someone once told me putting my thoughts on paper would—what is the saying?Uncludder my mind.
(That doesn’t seem right. Uncludder? Or unclutter?)
If anyone is reading this, please bear in mind I only learned how toright—write a few years ago.
And if putting these words to parchment helps touncluddermy mind…well, I would like to have a few moments of peace. Especially since I don’t know how many moments I have left.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
1
Hair today, Dye Tomorrow
“Seriously, who wants to greet the end of the world scared shitless when you can be happy and shitfaced? Am I right?” I leaned against the pickup counter, fiddling with one of the coffee shop’s cheap brown napkins. The mad morning rush had ended so it was quiet in the store. The only customers were me and a middle-aged man who’d set up a makeshift office on one of the corner tables.
My usual barista, a college kid named Sandy, rolled her eyes at me.
“True,” she drizzled extra caramel syrup over my latte, “but, even with the whole Winchester beer plan,Shaun of the Deadstill sucks.”
I liked Sandy. The kid was cool. I mean, her electric purple hair was a little too much for her complexion—I’d have gone with lilac or mauve—and she had crapped on one of my favorite movies, but she had good taste. Mostly.
I waved my napkin at her. “Please. You just don’t appreciate the humor.”
“Zombielandis so much better,” she said.
I pursed my lips. “Okay, that’s a good one. But nothing beats Simon Pegg and Nick Frost fighting zombies toDon’t Stop Me Now. It’s a freaking classic.”
“Two words.” Sandy placed my latte on the counter in front of me. “Woody. Harrelson.”
I shrugged and laughed. “Okay, yeah, he’s pretty hilarious. I’ll give ya that. Thanks!” I lifted the coffee cup and tapped the end against my forehead in a salute. “I’d never survive the AM rush without your go-go juice, Sands.”
“It’s almost noon…oh, and Addie!” Sandy called my name before I stepped out the door.
