WildFire

1

Nakamura [Name]. You were a simple, Japanese girl, who had a considerably normal family. You were often praised as your current nine-year-old self, though you weren't sure you liked what they were complimenting you for. You--despite being very enthusiastic about certain things--would punch anyone else that called you "adorable" with no regrets.

"They're just complimenting you--I don't get why you're being so unreasonable about it," your mother had scolded once she pulled you away from the guests. 

You scowled, but nodded half-heartedly along anyways, because what other choice did you really have?

You didn't know it at the time--didn't have the word for it--but you could feel it even then: they were patronizing you. 

The people that were supposedly complimenting you were looking down at you. You hated that feeling--you wanted people to be intimidated, impressed by something other than your babyish appearance.

You had never been an athletic person--no sports ever interested you. It wasn't worth the energy in your opinion--it was boring! 

You also refused when your mother tried to force you into music: your clumsy fingers would never pull the bow of the violin correctly, and you had drastically failed whenever you tried to play piano--the notes wouldn't make sense to your non-musical brain. 

Music never came easy to you, since you never saw the appeal. You hated the sound of screeching strings that were supposed to be music--the sound of keys being pressed down to make unseeable "art". You weren't ever going to appreciate the sound of balls bouncing off racquets--not ever going to like the smell of hard-earned sweat and body odor.

Art was a whole different thing altogether though. Not music, actual art. 

Unlike a flute or table tennis racquet, a paintbrush felt right in your hands. You could spread color throughout the canvas, and you could paint anything you liked. It didn't matter, you had no restrictions when it came to art. 

Nobody told you that you couldn't hold a basketball while traveling across the court--nor could they shout that you had to do a pianissimo instead of forte. No one could say that you couldn't do an overhead serve in badminton--no one could yell at you for playing staccato when it was supposed to be legato. 

Art was limitless--you could paint animals or landscapes, and sometimes, mere splotches of color would satisfy you.

Why couldn't people appreciate your art? As far as you were concerned, it wasn't ugly--but nobody seemed to like to talk about your art. 

Your supposed friends at school liked to talk more about themselves and giggled about absurd rumors than even spare a glance at your paintings. Your mother would just scoff and say that one of your classmates was already a musical prodigy, or athletic star. 

Your mother cared for you, but her way of caring was trying to make you her perfect daughter with the perfect life--and that perfect was certainly not you. 

Art was just an useless hobby in her eyes.

And perhaps it was just an useless hobby, because if it wasn't, people would appreciate it, like it, wouldn't they? 

Thoughts like these haunted you, both in daytime, and in the darkest parts of your dreams. You wouldn't listen though, no matter how angry your mother got, or how exhausted your father. Why should you listen? They wouldn't understand, because they were so fixated on their own ideas.

No matter how you pled, your wishes just fell on deaf ears.

Home--that word was an interesting word to you, mostly because you didn't understand the concept of it. Some would say home is the place you live, and others say it was the place you return to. Home. Was your house your home? You lived there--so it must be. 

You wouldn't live there if you had a choice though, you would run away and start world domination, perhaps you could paint all the buildings rainbow or something. To be honest, your true home was probably the public park a few blocks down from your house.

No one really went to the park anymore, they complained that there were too many bugs, but you didn't mind the chirping cicadas and occasional mosquitos. You usually killed the mosquitos anyways. 

You had recently come here to paint instead of staying holed up in your room, where the constant sound of your parents arguing would distract you. You would usually pick a shaded spot and start painting, neat brush strokes across the canvas.

Blues, grays, whites, blacks. The blank canvas was now covered in color, and so was your fingertips--though you had no idea how the paint had reached them. You smiled proudly as you added finishing touches on your art piece, satisfied.

"What is that?"

You flinched, startled. There was a boy leaning over your shoulder, peeking at your painting. Dark hair and dull, brown eyes stared down at you. You guessed he was about your age, even though you were sure no one your age bore such an apathetic expression. You couldn't read him at all.

You glanced down at your painting and said, "it's a Manta Ray! I saw some in a video--they're really cool!"

Your father had shown you a documentary on aquatic animals, and the Manta Ray had caught your eye. They looked like they were flying through the water, gliding gracefully around the fish, their long, thin tail trailing behind. It was what you had painted. A Manta Ray, flying through fluffy white clouds. In the bottom corner, you had signed your name in wobbly characters: Nakamura [Name].

"It's pretty," the boy complimented, and you turned with a slightly startled look--a small blush rising to your cheeks. His face still looked expressionless, but he had just complimented your art. That was enough to make your head float up to the clouds, until he added, "but Manta Rays don't fly."

"It's called creativity," you emphasized, scrunching your nose at him--letting your face and tone do a 180. "Obviously, you are lacking in that department. Who are you anyways? Why are you here?"

"I live here."

You tilted your head and looked around skeptically. Green grass and trees, a crow perched on a branch not too far away. 

"Huh," you said, a bit incredulous. "You live in the park?"

"I live in this district." the boy deadpanned. And then, as if to mock you, he added, "Obviously."

"I hate you."

You didn't actually hate him, it was actually fun talking to him. At home, your parents punished you whenever you insulted something that they liked, or let your mouth run loose. You always had to be wary of what you did or how you acted in the house, yet this boy didn't seem to mind. You paused, studying him, then added, "Who are you?"

"I don't give my name to strangers."

"Ok," You agree, turning back to dab more shades of blue on your clouds. You would like to float like a cloud, or fly like a Manta Ray. If you could, you would soar up and up, gliding through the breeze and flying as close you could to the snow kissed mountains. Then, world domination. "I'll call you Otter Face then."

"What's your name?"

"Nakamura [Name]. Don't change the subject, Otter Face."

You weren't sure if Otter Face was an insult. You quite liked otters, they were cute and playful, and you would sit at your desks drawing them all day if you could. The word "otter" came to mind when you looked at the boy. Despite being completely different creatures, they both had lazy expressions and eyes that seemed to judge you through and through.

That day, you had left, still not knowing Otter Face's real name. You intended to find out though, you wanted to talk to him more. Because, upon looking back on that conversation, you realized that he was the first person to genuinely compliment your art--and that alone struck the sparks that would later turn into a blazing fire.