Pyro

Strike a match

Pyro. One word to describe me. A pyro. I guess it sounds cool. It worked well for me.
I get it started when I was a kid. At about three I found a box of matches. My parents quickly saw and took them. I was always curious and found that strange box again when I was five. I had seen my parents light them and memorized the movements to do it. I set my sheets on fire and burnt my hands. My parents flipped. There were never matches in my house again and if there was they were hidden really well.
My hands were permanently scarred from the burns but nothing to bad happened. I should have been scared of the flames now but now... I was addicted to it. The beautiful bight flames. Oh how it licked at the air and ate at the oxygen in the room. It was lovely to see and smell of the smoke filling my lung was lovely. Don't even get me started on the amazing pain of the burns the flames gave me. It was simply wonderful! I want now obsessed with finding a way to get this pleasure again. It was my reason for being now!
Age six looking for matches.
Age seven finding out about lighters.
Age eight learning that wood can make fire.
Age nine caught buying trying to buy matches with my parents.
Age ten figured out how to use a lighter.
Age eleven learn how to set fire with a magnifying glass.
Age twelve caught with matches at school.
Age thirteen burns on my body grew.
Age fourteen burning things.
Age fifteen burning living things.
Age sixteen burning people.
Age seventeen setting my house and my parents ablaze.
Age eighteen mental institution.
They told me I was sick. They said they were helping. They said they could fix me. They shoved some pills down my throat. They made me talk to people. They told me I was hurting myself. I didn't care. They told me I was hurting others. Why should I care? They were just trying to take away my happiness. My reason for living.
No more matches anymore. No more lighters. No more wood, magnifying glasses, no fire. I felt like I was dying. They took away my everything! My pain. My pleasure. I wanted to burn them. Just like I did to everyone who tried to take my pleasure away. Slowly I fell into despair. Despair fell into depression and anxiety. I wanted it. I wanted the matches in my palm and the light in life. I needed it. I needed a lighter in my hand and fire on my flesh.
The more I thought the more I needed to get out of here. I tried do anything to get a small flame and nothing. They kept telling I could get better if I tried. I didn't want to get better. I just wanted fire. More meds. They didn't help the thoughts of longing or the thoughts of suicide. The more I rotted there with my arms bound to my sides by this jacket the more I gave up hope.
Yes I'm a little pyro. But don't we all want happiness in this world. Why was mine taken? I think every night. I waited hoping some day my flames would be back to bath me in their beautiful and warm embrace. And that thought kept me from giving up.