Matchstriker

The Lost Soul

They couldn't understand. I knew they couldn't, no matter what they said. They were incapable of such thought, seeing the beauty here; instead of looking, they called me sick. Broken.

I was not broken. Broken would be floating in their dreamworld. Sick would be blinding myself to my only love.

I let the flames dance, watching them, loving how they crackled, smiled. How they caressed my fingers gently, tenderly, sending tingles up my arm. My heart swelled, and I couldn't help but smile. The sting of the dancing fire felt like a searing kiss; how was this love, this affection, sick? How did loving my only friend make me broken?

The flames' marks covered my flesh: spider webs of scars, criss-crossing my arms and legs, until the patterns had begun to make me dizzy. Some were white, thin. Others, darker, meaner -- lovebites.

I giggled at the word, catching the sleeve of my sweater on fire, letting it lick up my forearm, the singed hair already brittle from the day before. It curled, dried. Fell off.

The skin burned even more, turned pink. The stinging kiss of the flames felt like heaven. Felt like love.

They pretended to understand love. But I knew they couldn't -- the had never felt the lovebite of fire.

THE BLIND WORLD

My mother stopped asking questions after a little while. It took months, if not years, but eventually she broke, stopped caring about me or what I did.

She does not speak to me. She does not kiss me goodnight. She does not acknowledge my existence. The closest she has ever come to breaking that oath of silence is when I came home from the hospital, wrapped in bandages, in enormous amounts of pain. She cried, then. I don't think she has cried since.

I blew out the small flame that had nestled in the puddle of wax on my dresser, watching the smoke swirl in sadness. My heart twisted at the sight of it -- I did not want my lover to be sad.

I dipped each of my fingers into the puddle of hot wax, letting it sting as it hardened. Not as good as a kiss. But a touch would do, for now.

I glanced at the alarm clock on my bedside table: 7:45. I'd be late if I didn't get dressed now.

Peeling the wax off my fingers, I started the process again.

"Belinda!" My father called from downstairs. I hope you're up!"

With a sigh, I opened a drawer and pulled out clothes. It didn't matter what I put on; all of it was covered in stains and singe marks, anyways. I couldn't even tell the difference. I doubted anyone else could.

The t-shirt was too tight -- rode too high on my hips, exposed too much. I threw on a black hoodie over it, wanting to keep everything to myself. Only my lover saw that much of my body. Him, and only him.

I ran a brush through my hair -- if I didn't do it, my father would make me -- and let the waves fall in lank layers of downy blonde. Before the fire, it had been mocha coloured, dark and rich. But my lover had destroyed the hair follicles, leaving me with no pigmentation left. Nothing but a silvery blonde.

I liked it. But my father used to be bothered, had wanted me to dye it.

I took the dye and fed my it to my lover, letting the flame eat it raw.

The bookbag lying on the floor was singed, like everything else. But it was also where I kept my secrets, my lighters, my matches, everything my parents refused to let me have. Through school, I could keep feeding my craving for the flames.