Bobby's beside me, snoring. The bastard woke me up, moving around like that, and now I can't get back to sleep. Ah, but I love him. He's been a good friend to me for…well, years now. Ever since I got to the institute. My name is John…St. John, really, or Pyro. I guess it's an appropriate sort of codename for a guy like me, a mutant kid who can control fire.
My mutation manifested itself when I was eight. I could tell you the exact date because it was my birthday when it happened. I've since been told that eight is pretty damn young for that sort of thing to start up, but there you have it.
I don't really remember my father. There was a guy who lived with my mom and I, but he didn't talk to me much and he left when I was about six. I think he might have been my father, but who the hell knows? He wasn't around a lot, and I know that he and my mom did a lot of fighting about that. I think he may have been gambling or sleeping around, because we never had enough money and my mom blamed him for that. When he was there, he mostly just sat in this easy chair we had and drank beer. Or something. Then one day, he said he was going out for cigs, and he never came back. Cliché enough for you? The man's whole life was like that. Get a load of this.
My mother was tall and very blonde. I think the best way to describe her would be…blowsy. When I was a kid, I thought she was real mature, old as all hell. But when I think about it now—when I see her in my mind's eye, 'cause I sure don't have any photos—I'm realizing that she probably wasn't a helluva lot older than I am now. She must have had high hopes for me at some point—why else would she have given me this crazy name? I don't quite know how she settled on St. John out of all the disciples, but there you go. Fun fact though—and I only found this out recently—St. John was the patron saint of authors, writers, and about fifteen other things, one of which is burns. The patron saint of burns , and I'm named after him. Pretty sure he cured burns, though, not caused 'em.
Anyway, my mom wasn't around much either, but that wasn't so much her fault, I guess. She worked all the time at a pastry shop and came home crying at the end of the day only to go out again before the sun had even set. I think that she may have been a paid escort at night, since she didn't come home again 'til the morning and then she was off again. Where else could she sleep? I don't know. I guess it's possible she had a steady man to stay with, but why wouldn't she move him in with us? And we needed every damn penny, so I guess it stands to reason that she might have resorted to something like hooking. Don't feel like hearing anything else? I'll summarize it for ya. The product of a prostitute mother and an drunken absentee father is me, the pyromaniacal malcontent. Typical.
Anyway, it was my birthday. I was turning eight. I hadn't been going to school for weeks and nobody cared. I knew it was my birthday, too, and I knew that no one was there to share it with me. Guess I got kinda bitter. Can you blame me though, really?
Well, I was hungry. I got myself a bowl of cereal and then went searching for a spoon. Not just any spoon. I had a favorite one. Scooby Doo on the handle. Well, I never found that spoon, but I did find something else.
I guess matches serve as a pariah in just about any home. Even in mine. My mom had told me to leave 'em alone, and more importantly, the shows on TV told me to leave 'em alone, but I'm sure that wouldn't have stopped me if I was really hellbent on setting myself on fire. I just didn't care. But that day, when I came across those matches, well, I felt something sorta boil in my brain and I thought, "If they can leave me alone on my birthday…" And so I took them out.
I remember that sweet scent, that hot, acrid burst of odor that accompanied the striking of my first match. I was sitting there and watching it burn, and I guess it didn't register that I oughta blow it out. Instead, I let it creep right down to a millimeter above my fingers, and then I stopped it.
Pure will, buddy. I didn't know I was doing anything unusual at the time. I just knew that I didn't like how hot my fingers were getting, but I didn't want to put out the fire yet. It was too freaking pretty. When my mom came home that evening, I'd exhausted the supply of matches and was playing with a little orb of flames I'd managed to create. Bouncing it just like a ball. When my mom saw this, she screamed so loud I lost control, and that flaming orb went right up into the curtains just as quick as can be.
If it had happened now, ten years later, I'd have put out the fire just like that, nice as you please. But then…well, hell, I just didn't have any control. The curtains went up in gorgeous orange flames and I was both too panicked and mesmerized to do anything about it. My mom was yelling her damn head off, running to the sink for water, splashing it on the curtains. Didn't work. All the while, screaming "Dammit, Johnny, what the fuck didja think you were doin'?"
I didn't respond at first. A nice case of glory-induced paralysis will do that to ya. Get a good fire going and I won't see anything else in the world.
The fire spread. It was into the kitchen pretty fast, which was a problem because everything there was greasy. Well, I may love fire, but smoke is another deal entirely and when it got thick enough to make me choke, I left. Just slipped out into the fresh air and let it purge my lungs, wash over my burning eyeballs.
Don't think I just left my mother there to die. I didn't even though it mighta been justified, what with the lousy parenting job she was doing. Ah, I don't mean that. By the time I was stumbling out across the backyard, the fire engines were pulling up. I thought of going back to see what was happening but hell, I was afraid. What would everyone say when they found out that it was all my fault?
I don't remember how I decided to keep walking, but I did.