Fire

         I never understood why people were so afraid of fire. It's a living being like anything else in the world. It needs food and air to live and thrive. And just like other things, it can harm you when you threaten it.

         I think my interest in the flame started around the age of ten. My parents were smokers and they spent their afternoons puffing the toxic chemicals and releasing them back into our home. The little white poison stick looked foreign to me, but the glowing tip drew my attention. How it would whittle away at the cigarette, eating at the material until there was nothing left. I had to know how this was done, and so I watched obsessively until I found out what created so an enticing light. Matches, the creator of the primordium, or at least one of the easier ways we can create such an ancient energy. I did what any other curious kid would do. Sneak into their parent's room and grab the thing that made them so curious. The box of matches rested comfortably atop the nightstand beside my parent's bed. If only they had hidden it in the drawers along with their precious cigarettes, then maybe I wouldn't have gone down a searing rabbit hole.

         Lighting the match for the first time filled me with more joy than I could ever imagine. I mimicked the motions of my parents and executed them perfectly. The spark ignited and the little flame was safely alive on the match. I was hypnotized by the flame, watching it eat away at the match stick. My trance was only broken when I felt the flame hit my fingertips. The hot screaming sensation I felt when it touched my skin was strange the first time. I know most people would stop playing with the matches at this point. The whole idea that I got hurt doing this thing so I will stop just didn't register in my brain. Instead, I lit another match and allowed it to burn me again.

         I continued this trend for years, stealing the matchbox from my parent's room, and just letting the fire breathe on its own. That was until I was old enough to realize I could just get matches for free at any store. I just had to ask nicely and the clerk behind the counter would shrug and hand me some. I also started experimenting more with feeding the flame. I wanted to see if I could manipulate the fire. I started small. I tested to see what the fire liked and hated. It loved paper, wood, and coal. I hated water, but even as I kid I knew the two elements did not pair well together. I guess the definition of what I was becoming was a pyromaniac. A fitting title for my younger self. Whenever I wasn't at school, I was secretly feeding the flame all of its favorites. Nobody ever suspected me. Even with the slight burns on my fingertips or the smell of ash on my clothes. It was for the best, I wouldn't know what to do if someone caught me. I doubt they would understand.

         When I graduated and was able to escape the confines of my parent's home I felt liberated. Like the flame I needed more room to grow. I began to experiment with fire hoping to achieve something more. My first experiment was to see how long it took less flammable materials to burn. It was disheartening at first. The flame was hungry but it wasn't hot enough to spread. It needed an extra push. So I looked up the best way to feed the flame and learned that a single liquid was all it needed.

         Gasoline. A fire's best friend. The building I ran my first test on was abandoned and as I dosed it in gasoline I breathed in the chemical smell. It wasn't as satisfying as the smell of a fire but it was for the greater good. I lit my match and dropped it to the ground. The burning erupted in a screaming inferno that I narrowly escaped from. The burns I received that day didn't hurt. It was just affection from the fire. Each scar I wore with pride. The fire loved me and I wanted to share the fire's love with others.

         My first attempt to share the love was met with mixed reception. A shivering man in a back alley. Desperate for warmth, I tried to give him what he wanted. I lit the match and flicked it onto him. He didn't like it when I did that. As the man chased me, I had an epiphany. It needed more so it could love. I returned the next day to the man, more prepared. Gas was poured on him while he slept. And once again a flick of a lit match hit his body and--

         I still remember the smell, a mix of gasoline, flesh, and flame. This was the smell of love. More people needed to feel this love. The flame embraces the man with its warmth. Others should feel this loving embrace. I started small, finding people in alleys and giving them the love they so craved. Their screams of joy were intoxicating and I couldn't help but cheer gleefully like a child. But I wasn't giving enough people the love they craved. I had to be faster. The flame had so much to give, and I was its giver.

         This time the building I entered wasn't empty. I carefully lined the halls with gasoline. I made sure the doors were painted with the fuel. Nobody seemed bothered by the smell that was leaking into their homes. Nobody seemed to care about the giggles that couldn't be contained. I stared at the building for what felt like an eternity once each floor was given enough fuel. I lit the match as I did so many times before. I stared at the flame and smiled when I dropped the match. The fire traveled the path I had laid for it. And I watch in giddy anticipation waiting to hear the happy screams of the people given the love they so desperately craved.