Separate

3. Burn

"I wanna just burn all of the lies that you did believe,
I wanna just burn all of the faith that you had in me,
I know we both see, you'll never save me."

Burning myself by accident in Hilton Head opened up a whole new world for me. It wasn't random chance that caused the flames to rise out of the stove and cling to my body. I had done it. I had willed the fire to come to me. I had willed it to burn my hands. It took me a while to realize it, but I could make the flames do whatever I wanted. At a cost.

If the fire touched me, I got burned. Never severely enough to cause significant damage because my body healed burns at an unnaturally fast rate. But the injuries felt good. Letting my inner flame escape into the real world felt good. I felt in control when I used my flames to burn myself.
I always carried a lighter with me these days because while I could manipulate fire, I could not summon it on my own. The lighter was portable and meant I could use it whenever I needed a fix. I would sneak off to the bathroom and set my fingertips on fire so I could drag them across my skin. It was sick that self-torture was the only way to feel something other than the burning inside my body. I wanted to stop and I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was addicted. Not to mention I could not just reveal my newly developed talent in fire manipulation to anyone. I'd seen enough movies. I'd either be committed for insanity or used by the government as some type of weaponized inferno. This was my secret to bear.

Even though my body healed fast, I kept burning on top of old wounds to get scars. I knew part of me wanted people to notice. Not just that I was covered in burns and scars but that I was hurting. I wanted someone to swoop in and tell me I was not alone. But if anyone ever noticed my wounds they never said a thing. And I acted as I liked it that way.

My parents, however, would notice from time to time. Which is why they put me in therapy. My therapist was a young woman who was actually very friendly and we got along great. But it did not help me. It was not her fault. It was mine. I was too far gone to be saved. I honestly believed I was a lost cause. And I lived like this. I lived a life where I hated everyone, was dating a guy I did not even have any interest in, and I was addicted to self-destruction. I was hardly alive at all.

And then I broke. I experienced trauma. I suffered the worst type of betrayal anyone can, and I lost it. I could not contain the flames inside me anymore. They ached to come out. They ached to explode out of me like a volcano. And it happened.

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Two years later, I found myself in the gym of my high school. High school had always been awkward for me. I had developed a plethora of reputations over the past two years but had managed to start off my tenth-grade year somewhat unscathed. I was alarmed, however, because I did not know anyone in this gym period other than a girl named Christine who was very into K-Pop and anime. She was nice, but we had very little in common. I recognized one girl from middle school, Thalia, a timid girl who I was acquaintances with, in the sixth grade.

But then I saw him. Across the gym, there was Connor O'Brien. Someone I had managed to have minimal contact with for the past two years. He was not someone I trusted in the slightest. But he had changed. He was not the scrawny little boy I had met three years ago. His hair was growing out, and he had gotten taller and quite a deal more muscular. The plastered scowl had become a cocky smirk. This once dorky kid was now exuberant with confidence. There was a swagger in his step that was unmatched by any other male I had ever met. As much as he rubbed me the wrong way, I was drawn to him, constantly watching and paying attention.

I had changed quite drastically too. My long hair was now shaved on one side, and shoulder length on the other. I had dyed it the most neon pink imaginable. I had got my destructive habits a tad bit more in check and my confidence up so I was able to wear short sleeves again, and I dealt with it when the rare person dared to ask me about my scars. I was far skinnier than I had been in middle school as I had spent the last year fighting off the anorexia that continually tried to regain control. I would not let it. I was in control now.

People did not ask me many questions or attempt to bother me. They all knew I was not the most stable person. Most people knew where I was when I disappeared from middle school for six months. It was almost taboo to bring it up. I doubted Connor would bother me.

But It was my reality. I was committed to a psychiatric hospital for a suicide attempt when I was only fourteen. I spent six months there working on my issues, and it was somewhat helpful. Not entirely because I could not let the doctors know that I had a gift, but some because they taught me other ways to cope. The doctors helped get clean off the drugs I tried to use to help put out my fire. I'd admit that I was still not the happiest person in the worst. Instead, I was incredibly lonely and always felt like an outcast to everyone. But I had gotten used to the feeling of a fire burning inside of me. It still hurt and some days it was too much to bear but I was learning to cope.