Fire.

I stood in front of a burning house, a house that had only been on the block for seven months, no one had moved in yet.1

It was a big spacious house, littered with windows and decks and skylights etcetera. No one in the actual town liked it, actually you could say they hated it… which was probably the reason why it was burning down. Rumors spread that a rich family was moving in, (though not now of course), where I lived… no one liked the rich because they were rich, and half of the time extremely selfish, living off the backs of the middle class, not stopping to think of anyone around them, just sticking their noses in the air and pushing aside the weak and starving. That’s just what we thought of the rich folk, it’s what the generations before us thought and it’s what they taught us. In a sense of speaking… we were born to hate each other. For example… they mocked us… were put a dead rat in their Mums’ bed. It was just how we handled things.2

Those thoughts always ran threw my mind, but right now they had stopped and the only thing that played with my mind was the warmth of the fire heavily harassing my body, it’s warm air heating even the deepest parts of my soul, though it got hotter as the fire grew, my eyes closed as a light smile tugged at the sides of my lips. I loved fire. It felt like a million bodies holding me fondly, making me sway at their grasp. The heat was unfamiliar, along with the grasp of its burning hands and bodies; I had never felt something so easy to desire.3

I stood there for several minutes, my eyes closed and a simple and fond thought in my usually stirring mind, I wavered a bit and I was sure I felt strong warm hands catch me and push me forward, when suddenly it was cold, the heat was fading and my body ached. I opened my eyes, thinking that for some odd reason the house had stopped burning, but it was still alight, if not bigger and hotter then before. A bewildered look on my face as well as in my mind, why was I cold all of the sudden? I thought, still lusting for the attention of the fire, once it left me I felt myself lean forward toward the burning house, toward the heat, and whimper slightly, still wanting it to occupy my body with its warmth, but it was gone. The ache that had ran threw my body before centered in my right shoulder, my hand reached gingerly up to it, there was no blood, but it hurt like hell. I frowned again and felt eyes watching me, so steadily, I turned around and before I could see what was watching me another shot of pain ran threw my body and centered on my thigh, and then another in my stomach, this time I doubled over in horrid pain, tears swelling in my eyes and an acrid taste filling my mouth. When the tears fell the ground I saw why the taste was in my mouth, I had puked from the impact of the ‘thing’ hitting my stomach, the regurgitation was just light red liquid since there was nothing else in my system except for water. 4

I tried to stand when another hard pain hit me smack dab on my sternum, I cried out roughly, barely being able to breathe, and fell to my side, landing hard on the ground, my eyes filled with tears, though I wasn’t quite sure if they came because of the pain or because of the lack of the heat of the fire, though I was leaning towards it being a little of both. Either way my eyes were smeared and I couldn’t see anything except for the orange haze against the sky caused my the fire behind me, then abruptly a figure stepped over me, I couldn’t see the face properly, though I could tell it was a man, a bald man to be specific. He looked down at me and frowned then looked away.5

“Jimmy, you daft wanker, you could’ve killed the poor bastard.” His voice was husky as he shouted to a man I couldn’t see. He looked back down at me. “You still breathing there, mate?” the man asked, I attempted a frown, though I didn’t think I achieved it as I planned, but apparently I made some what of an impression because he laughed and nodded his head. “Alright, alright, stupid question on my part, sorry.” He said and grabbed my arm, plopped it on the back of his neck so that it hung over the shoulder opposite to me and pulled me up, I winced and groaned lowly as my body stretched. 6

I attempted to tell him that I wasn’t the one who did it, not the one that set the house on fire anyway, once I saw the squad of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances in front of me, but it just came out as a rough, low, whisper.7

“What’d you say, mate?” the man asked. 8

I winced as he tripped on a root that stuck above ground, pulling on my wounded shoulder, steadying myself, I tried again. “I didn’t do it.” I said finally and he smirked.9

“Course not, why would a crazy Irishman like you set a Brits’ house on fire? Na’ that’s pure nonsense, never even registered in my mind.” He mocked me and I could feel his gaze staring down at me, but it wasn’t a harsh gaze… just a normal, ‘doing my job’ ‘normal routine’ sort of gaze.10

“I didn’t know.” I managed to talk again, finding that after the first time it got easier.11

He laughed roughly again. “No, I know, you’re just a random Republican born Leprechaun that happens upon a burning Brits’ house and just stand in front of it for the damned heat.” He roughed a laugh and shook his head. “That’d be the day, lad, that’d be the day.”12