I Need The Fire

Part 1

I shiver as cold icy droplets gather on my skin. They're soft and gentle, like the brush of a hand on my cheek. I look up in wonder as the sky sheds its beautiful tears, my eyes tracking their movements as they fall over the landscape. As the water engulfs my surroundings, a smile plays on my face. The wetness of the rain feels familiar somehow. Suddenly, the water starts separating from my body, slowly collecting to form a silhouette. I watch in quiet anticipation as the elegant figure forms. I know somehow that it is a benevolent presence. 

I gasp as the world suddenly turns hot, and the once icy droplets become scolding. I cover my head, shielding it from the world, as everything bursts into flames. The silhouette is gone in a flash, and I find myself gasping for air, my voice coming out in raspy, inaudible whispers. "Help me! Help," but nobody rushes to my aid. Everything is on fire. I don't understand what's happening!

I jolt awake, sitting up as quick as my weary 3:00 AM bones permit and blinking in the sight of the room. My brain refuses to process what I am seeing. The fire is real! I open my mouth to scream but no sound comes out. My hands fly up to my head and I bury my face in them. I am shaking.

No.

The simple word cuts through the panic. I cannot let myself fall apart like this. Slowly, still shaking, I look up and take in the sight of my world burning.

My mind is racing twenty miles a minute. I see the fire crackle, only seeming to grow stronger with my confusion. Or is it fear? My head whips around the room, and my concentration scatters as the fragmented pieces of my brain struggle to grasp the reality of my situation. My hands glow with pulsing red fire, and the blaze takes over my mind. My world narrows to the heat of the dancing flames upon my skin. Suddenly, I notice the portraits lining my dresser and am pulled from my frenzy. I grab my favorite, a picture of me and my parents, but shriek as my attempt to save the memory only makes the fire spread. I watch in horror as my photo crumples, the fire leaping onto the paper and surrounding the happy family. Hungry flames roar and the picture burns. The sight of parents turning to dusty ashes sears in my mind, and I start to scream. Where are they? Please, please be alive.

I need to find my parents and get them out of here. "Mom! Dad!" I yell. I start towards the door but stop in my tracks. The door isn't on fire. In fact, the whole wall is perfectly intact. I take in the sight of my room once more, eyes widening. I look down and the pieces finally start to come together.  The house isn't on fire at all. I am. I let out another shriek and try to brush the flames off, but they only grow. They are hot and overwhelming and my brain is telling me that I should be feeling pain but I feel only energy. Power. 

My scream turns into a sob as my eyes fill with tears. I throw myself onto the couch on the other side of the room and roll around on the soft cushions, but nothing I do can quench the red hot blaze. I curl up in a ball and let myself fall apart as the flames consume me. But somewhere in me, beyond the panic and desperation and guilt, I know that this is how it was always meant to be. How it should be. Because even though it is scary and destructive, there is a beauty to the fire. And there's something else too. Something deeper. Something primitive. Something special. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, but I know this much: I need the fire, and it needs me.