fire.
I hate him with a fiery passion.
Yet he loves me so, so much.
I didn't lead him on. I honestly think I'm incapable of performing such flirtatious acts. And it's not as though I didn't try to deter him.
Hell, why couldn't I have listened to my mother? Not that I ever respected her. Not that I ever cared for her, or loved her. But listening to her wasn't too much to ask for. When she said "That Axel-boy there. He's no good," I denied it. In my childish defiance I would refute anything she said. At that time, around fourteen, he was an alright person. That Axel-boy. I liked him well enough. We'd wander around for days, burning various obscenities into the bark of trees. That was what interested him. Not swearing (although he gave the impression of liking that a lot too) Burning. The flames he'd seemingly conjure up from his fingers, with the assistance of a well-hidden match, fascinated me too.
It would dance – flicker and burn. Destroy.
Just like him.
The fire in his hands matched the fire in his body matched the fire in his eyes matched the fire in his grin.
But soon it was more than just a compliment. The fire in his hands was the fire in his soul. His life almost revolved around the thin red-capped matches. Between them and those rare moments he spent out with me.
Then that melted together too, in a most fitting way. He'd do that same trick he did when we were younger, the match conveniently out of view, making the ignition all the more enthralling. But the look in his eyes was different – it was that Axel-boy I'd been warned about – as he dragged the thin flame over my cheek. Physically it was harmless, just a small irritation.
"It's just a match," That Axel-boy said, as I pushed away. It was the only thing lighting the room, and it died between my two fingers that day.
end.