Voltaire

Chapter I - Fire

Fire.

That word was stuck in my head ever since I first saw it. There was some sort of addiction to it that I couldn't ignore in my early childhood. Whenever I saw a glimpse of flames whether it be a fireplace or even a burning building, I'd always be admired by its looks instead of frightened. I wasn't really like the other kids in my hometown of Peru, most of them were petrified when they saw fire because it would apparently 'burn them', I wasn't worried for them.

One time even I was eager to put my hand in the roaring swirls emitted in the fireplace, disobeying my mother's orders, I really didn't care. It burnt my hand horrendously but I didn't show notice. Although when my mother looked she took full notice and started panicking whilst jumbling up Spanish words in her sentences, trying so desperately to put out the flames before they'd progress further on. But it didn't, it only just burnt my hand and I didn't feel any pain. Eventually though my mother put out the fire and gave me a discipline, although I was only 3 years old then. I remember her saying to me "No eres un niño normal" constantly. She told me I wasn't normal just for having likings and never ending addictions with flames. I never took her word for it but in my early ages I was a bit hurt by it.

She even compared me with the other 'normal' kids you'd see in Peru, surely not in the modern days, they would be different now. My mother later then took me to the Diospi Suyana which was a hospital south east of Peru to help with my damaged hand , which, to me, didn't hurt at all. But anyways we met up with a doctor for a checkup, I remember his name was Dr Muñoz and his personality was very humble and bright. Most of the time my mother was speaking to the doctor in complete nonsense (Basically in Spanish) but in the end, the words "Pyromaniac" had spilled out, which left even me concerned. At that time I never knew what 'pyromaniac' meant but my Doctor described it as "una adicción al fuego" my doctor said that I had an addiction to fire and told my mum to watch over me so I don't cause anymore havoc with flames.

When we left my mum was on full strict mode with me and fire and even said there will be a possible ban to it. But that never stopped me. One day I was caught staring at the fire and I pretty much regretted that instantly by getting whipped in the face. It stung for quite a while, but I ended up hearing shouting from downstairs that sounded like mum and dad. It was about the whipping, and for a matter of fact my dad heard it. My dad was rarely in most of the time due to work but he was the only person in my family who understood my 'pyromaniac problem' and he even told me he found fire cool, but not when he saw people being burnt at stake, people burning didn't concern me, I found it rather awesome.

Then my dad gave me a lighter, which he said to me if I was ever bored I can always take a glimpse. I always kept that lighter, even now. It oddly never seemed to run out, that was helpful I guess. I had described it as a 'special gift' since I didn't care about anything else my parents gave me except for chocolate and sweets. But now I had a flame that would infinitely go through my life by my side. That was the only thing that made me happy.