G'day mates. Me name's St. John. Not just regular old run-of-the-mill John, but St. John. Me mother'd been planning on just naming me after me dad when I was born, but she changed her mind. Ten seconds after I was born she already thought I was destined for hellfire. I certainly hope so. I like fire. I still hear her cryin' to her lady friends about me birth. It was a home delivery and I wasn't five seconds out of her before I saw it. The love of my life. The thing I always want to go to, but am never allowed near. Fire. Five seconds out, I quit crying and started reaching for the fireplace. I wanted it then, and I want it now. I love fire. Sure, every time I get too close she burns me, but I still love her.
Mum's convinced there's something wrong with me. At first she just suspected I were a little odd, but that changed in Sunday school. The teacher told us that the most wonderful, beautiful thing in the world was Jesus, then asked us to point to where Jesus lived. Everyone else pointed to their hearts. I pointed at the fireplace. I love winter. People light fires more.
That's when Mum started bringing in the funny men to try to fix me. Some of them just ask me how I feel or try to tell me that fire isn't fun. One of them thought there was a demon in me and tried to get it to come out. Nothing changed how I felt about the lovely flames. Mum's starting to repeat tricks. I wonder how long it will be before she realizes there's nothing wrong with me? It's everyone else that has the problem. Can't they see how beautiful fire is?
My favorite holidays are anything with fireworks or a lit fireplace. I used to not care about fireworks, but last year the McKinley's lit one too close to their house and the whole back wall of the house went up in flames. Glorious, beautiful flames. I danced and tried to go inside the house to get closer to the fire, but Mum wouldn't let me. Then the firemen came and killed the fire. I cried all night. I hate firemen.
I'm in first grade now. I'm really supposed to still be in kindergarten because I never quite learned my numbers and such, but me mum made the teachers bump me up. She can yell something fierce when she'd mad, can me mum. None of the other kids understand me, but that's ok. The think I'm a thickie because I can't read so good, but I know lots of big words. I know acetylene, and gasoline, and ignition, and kerosene, and pyromaniac, and arsonist, and lots of others. They just won't teach me any of the words I want to know. Who cares how dog is spelled?
The teacher's going around the class now, asking us what we want to be when we grow up. A lot of the kids wanna be ballerinas and boring stuff like that, except for a few boys that want to be the evil firemen. I've found a lighter. I'm gonna light their books on fire when they're not looking. It's my turn. I know exactly what I wanna be, and it's not some boring old thing like everyone else. I speak up nice and loud.
"I wanna be an arsonist!"