Fire

      Fire has a beauty that many do not know. The orange flames dance across boards and the little snaps and crackles play the song of the flame. The colors blend and contrast like red and orange leaves blowing in the wind. Fire is dazzling and almost hypnotic; perhaps that is why I almost perished in the flames that night, the fire had me under its spell.

     I survived, of course, but I was closer to death than the Grim Reaper’s best friend. If that fire fighter hadn’t pulled me away, my charred remains would be buried under a burnt ceiling. I was thankful that I'm alive, but God, I miss my flames? I held anger in my heart though, my flames where gone.

     This white-walled hospital room is now my home. The blandness of it annoyed me, fire was sexy, passionate, and exciting, to the point of despair. I can only see my fire when I close my eyes now, only in my ever bittersweet dreams. The dreams were bitter due to the pain, but sweet, oh so sweet because I can see the flames again. Alas, imagination can never replace the real thing. It sometimes can get close, and that, is enough.

     I coughed a wheezy wet cough that fought a war within my lungs. I could barely bare to cough now, for pain was always with it. The smoke from the house fire had poisoned my lungs. Aside from that and some rough burns here and there, I was fine, only depressed from the separation. I guess I should be happy that I’m not in a robotic suit like Darth Vader, but my longing for my fire doused that positive ember.

     My love affair with fire began one afternoon when I was seven. The school yard had an autumn breeze flowing through the air; old Mr. Frost would soon be upon the world. I had been walking to wait for the bus when a boy hit me in the back. I fell to the ground where the bully continually kicked me. When I found the strength to get back to my feet, I ran.

     I ran past teachers and students into the school. I ducked into a classroom and hid under the teacher’s desk. There were footsteps that entered the room; I knew the boy had followed me. Strong hands grasped me pulled me out from under the desk and pushed me on top of it, knocking everything into the floor except my teacher’s cigarettes and lighter. I started to get tired of the abuse, my head started to get hot. My hands were starting to smoke.

     The boy proceeded to throw a punch at my face when one of my red hands caught his and caught aflame. The boy yelled in panic at the burning pain and dropped me, but for me, there had to be revenge. I took my hands, the other had gone ablaze too, and I grabbed him. I yelled as I pushed him into a wall. The fire in my hands grew and swallowed the boy. He cried out in agony. I dropped him and came to my senses, I smelled more smoke; the walls around me were burning. I ran out of the school before the sirens could be heard.

     That is how my first school burnt down.

A knock on my door started me from my daydream. I looked at the ticking clock on the wall and saw it was three o’clock, time for my physical therapy. A sandy blonde in her early thirties walked in with a machine, Karen would be helping me today. Karen sat down and put the tube between my lips. She told me to take long deep breaths. The humming of the machine clouded my thoughts of my fire. The world seemed happier, for once. My thoughts eventually drifted back to fire, even with the firewall that the machine provided, they still were painful.

     After Karen had left I turned on the television. I flipped through the channels and finally settled for the news. Everything else reminded me about my painful separation. It felt worse than the worst break up imaginable. The news buzzed through me but never left an impression. I wanted to know about my last encounter with my fire. I never saw the story.

     Being of Cheyenne descent, my father had told me many of the tribe’s stories. One evening on a camping trip, he told me the story, while I checked out our supplies, of the Fire master.

     The tribe grew cold in the winters, long ago. The Chief would ask the Spirits for guidance, but they were silent. On the coldest night that the tribe ever experienced, a little boy asked them too. The Spirits heard the boy’s plea for help and answered. The boy was granted power over fire and was to be known as Fire Master. Everyone in the tribe was thankful for the Fire Master; he controlled the fires for the tribe. The power of Fire was passed down through his blood throughout the decades, and the Fire Master always was reborn.

     I only had a small portion of Indian blood in me, but it must have been enough. I was the Fire Master now. My father’s story opened my eyes, perhaps a little too much at the time. I lost control, the new knowledge broke through the barriers I had. I ignited the whole car.

     I spent three months in the hospital recovering from burns and other injuries. My father, his ashes were buried before I woke from the short coma that had followed the incident.

     I snapped out of my flashback, the memory always brought pain. I miss my fire. I looked over at my hands and imagined little flames enveloping the finger tips, nothing happened. My flame had gone out. I looked up through the window to the sky, for lack of want to do anything more.

     Sometime later Karen came in with a tray, it must be dinner time. She loosened my leather bracelets and helped me to the bathroom where I could wash up. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; I looked like a scar of my former image. My short black hair had burnt ends and my face had little craters and patches of burns. My eyes had sags underneath them like I haven’t sleep for a life time. I was a mess.

     I struggled back to my bed and ate my pizza while Karen watched me. When I finished and was back in my bracelets, Karen looked at me and asked, “Jack, do you need anything?”

     I immediately say, “My flames. I want my fire.”

     “Jack you know why you can’t have that,” she said as she started to back away.

     “I WANT MY FLAMES! MY FIRE! WHERE IS MY FIRE?” I scream. I start jerking around in my bed, trying to get out of my restraints. Karen presses a button on the wall.

     Two giant guys walk in and hold me down while Karen gives me a shot. The world around me fades away and I am out cold.

     The old house had been abandoned for years and it was in remarkable shape. I thought it would be a perfect place to spend some alone time with Jane. She was a sandy blonde who was the most beautiful girl I had ever had the chance to lay my eyes on. I only could hope she felt the same about me. Her father, a strict man, disagreed with our relationship so I had a hard time trying to figure out how to see her.

     I snuck out of my window a quarter to midnight. I ran the blocks it took to get to the abandoned house and snuck through the broken window that you could access from the back. I climbed up the half broken stairs and into a room on the second floor, the floor looked more sturdy here than anywhere else in the house. I put a blanket down and opened my bag. I hoped she could make it.

     Jane arrived at my midnight picnic as I was lighting the candles. We ate the small meal and had a grand time talking. Then we were kissing. The heated moment was too much for me. My flames returned that night. I felt the fire’s tender touch and I could smell its perfume. The flames had me under their spell.

       I would have perished from that fire if Jane hadn't cried out. Her scream of pain shocked me out of the dreamlike state the fire had me under. I looked around the burning room, she wasn't in here. I half crouch, half crawl under a fallen support beam that blocked the door. She wasn't  in the little hallway of fire either. She screamed again.  

       I ran over to the stairs and my foot broke through the ceiling, I felt the burning splinters break into my ankle. I choked back a scream. I couldn't scream, I could barely breathe. She was still screaming. I pulled my leg out and struggled to stand. I made it out of the hole, now I had to get to her.

       I limped over to the stairs, most of the stairs that were left were on fire. I jumped down to a step that was a few steps down, it broke under my foot and I did a face plant into a burning floor. It felt like molten iron was searing my face. I pushed myself up and struggled to get out the door. I could barely limp, I could barely breathe, I could practically see the Grim Reaper holding a sign with my name on it like I'm next on his limousine to death.

       I had to make it. I pushed out the door to find Jane screaming a few yards away in the grass. She wasn't hurt, she was screaming because I am hurt. I fell to the ground coughing. My face burned like the bonfire of hell's lava beach party, I was drowning, the pain was the last thing I knew before I finally succumbed to the pitch black.
     I heard a knock on my door the moment I woke up. I turned my head; I wasn’t ready to argue with Karen. I heard the door open slightly.

     “Jack, it’s me,” a small delicate voice said. Jane had come to visit.

     I turned my head and beckoned her in. “Hey,” I say with my raspy voice.

     “Hey,” Jane echoed.

     “Jane,” I said. It felt as if water was cooling my lungs. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

     “My father didn’t want me to come; he said you were too much trouble. I had to see you,” She said. Tears started to build in her eyes. She slowly ran her thumb over one of my scars. The pain started to subside.

     “I’m glad you did. I haven’t felt this amazing since I’ve been trapped here.”

     “Jack, you have to give up your fire,” she pleaded.

     “I can’t, I need them,” I said.

     “No, you don’t. Give it up Jack, before you hurt someone else. The school, your dad, you almost hurt me back there, and look at yourself. You have scarred that strong handsome face I like so much. Please, give up the fire. For me,” She said.

     “Okay,” I said. I didn’t agree with her, but I wouldn’t argue. I knew I couldn’t give up my flames.

     She kissed my cheek and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I couldn’t do it. The fire is a part of me. I can’t give it up, ever, but I missed her so much. I could have a normal life if I gave them up. I made a choice.

      Over the course of following weeks I was able to heal and in time once Karen had scene my progress mentally she allowed me to have a lighter to practice my gift. She and her brick wall guards watched me closely with fire extinguishers while I worked. At first I lost control, but as time went by I turned my addiction into a friend; I could use the flames while keeping them in control. The fire never used it's sorcery to control me again. I was now the puppet master, not the puppet.

      When I had been fit to leave they called Jane and she met me at the entrance has they discharged me. She walked me out to the car where I saw my reflection on the glass. My face had healed a little, the scars where still there but I looked stronger and happier. I walked to the door and I felt my foot kick something a few feet away. I walked over to it and it was a Zippo lighter.

     I held the lighter in my hand as we drove down the road toward home. I flicked it on and off, turned it over in my hand, and to Jane's surprise, I made little miniature stars and  flew them around above my palm. She looked horrified at the sight of me using my gift.

     "Jane," I said. "Don't be afraid. I can control it. It's taken hard work but I can control it and  I will never hurt anyone ever again." I spun the stars until we reached my house. Then, to prove I can control them, I sent them up into the air let them burst like fire works in the darkening sky. My name is Jack Flare and I am the Fire Master.