When I was little, I was fascinated by fire. Before my dad stopped smoking, I would sit next to his huge recliner and hold his lighter in my hands, fascinated by the bright, yellow flame that flickered with each breath I exhaled. I liked the way it would angrily consume everything in its path until there was nothing left to sustain it, and then it died like it had never even been there. My dad became fed up with me wasting all of his lighter fluid so he bought me my own lighter with my name, "Jade," carved into the smooth black surface. He also made sure that I never ran out of fluid and that my flame never died. My mother pressed her lips into a thin line when I showed her the precious treasure, muttering about other seven year old girls playing with dolls, not fire.
"You'll burn the house down," She said briskly, eyeing the carpet and curtains hanging on the walls. I frowned and assured her that I was always careful. She said that sometimes being careful wasn't enough. My dad gave my mom a warning look and she glared at him like always, turning on her heel and vanishing into her room. Like always. My dad slumped into his chair and rested his forehead on his hands. I slipped my lighter into my pocket and crawled though the doggie door that led to the backyard. We didn't even have a dog but the door was good for silent getaways. I carefully made my way across the darkness and scrambled up the makeshift ladder into my unfinished tree house. My dad had begun to build it the summer before, but stopped halfway for a business call. He never returned to the project.
Dead leaves rattled along the rotting wood floor as a chilly wind blew through the gaping holes in the wall. I gathered the leaves up into a crunchy pile and shivered with delight as I struck the lighter once, igniting a flame. I lowered it over the leaves which began to blaze immediately. At first the fire stayed contained and I happily held my hands over the warmth. When the fire had finished consuming the flames, it latched onto the rotting wood and started to spread rapidly. Panicking, I blew furiously on the fire but only seemed to make it bigger. I grabbed a tattered blanket from the wooden box in the corner and flung it over the blaze. The blanket folded and curled, landing in a crumbled heap smack in the middle of the fire. The fire stretched its arms around the tree house, spreading its girth and clinging to any flammable surface.
I ended up burning down the entire tree, much to the absolute fury of my mother who took my lighter and screamed at my father for almost an hour. She emptied out the fluid and refused my angry cries of outrage. She gave my dad another furious look before disappearing down the hall and into her bedroom. My dad scowled and rounded on me, bellowing about my irresponsibility and blatant stupidity.
"Why can't you play with Barbie like normal little girls!" he spat, "No more of these freaky habits! You're done!" With that, he snatched the lighter from the counter, turned on his heel and disappeared into his office. After two weeks, he was gone.
I always knew my mother blamed me for him walking out on us. The way she said that I looked just like my father with that bitter edge icing over her words. So I grew up and began my strange habits of collecting disgusting trinkets and proudly displaying them in my room just to see the horrified reaction of my mother. Our relationship warped and strained until we were no more than distant housemates that hated each other but were too polite to admit it to the other. Things got easier in high school. I met Beck who was willing to tune out my freaky habits and collections. He would look at them in interest and ask questions that were truly curious and not disgusted or condescending. He would choose his favorites and push them to front of the collection so he could see them better.
I told him about my love for fire and how the only thing I was ever denied was a lighter or a box of matches. He reached into his jacket pocket and placed a small silver lighter with "BECK" engraved on the side under an ace of spades. I was nearly sick with glee as I popped open the top and flicked the igniter. I grinned and watched the flame wiggle and squirm, trying to escape the confines of the lighter. Two months later, I accidently burned down Beck's RV. Things were never the same after that. Our relationship fizzled until we ended it. I grudgingly gave back the lighter and that was the end of it.
And then, I met Tori Vega. I had never seen something shine as bright and powerful as she did. She was like a forest fire among matchsticks. It made me angry that such a thing was even allowed to exist when fire had ruined so many things for me. But I couldn't stop watching her. She was enticing, like a real flame was sitting in the classroom, chatting animatedly to the boy next to her. It wasn't in my nature to try and get close to someone since they always ended up leaving and taking their love with them. So I was bitter and resentful towards her, spitting in her face and turning my back when she called for help. What baffled me was that no matter how many times I stomped on her hands as she dangled off a cliff, she would always come try to come closer. She wanted to lift my skin and read the fine print hidden beneath my tough layers of charred flesh. Every time she got closer, I would smack her wrist and hide away under a rock like a coward.
One day she got to me. She put on her reading glasses and went to work, breaking the codes that made up who I am. When she finished, she said I was the best thing she'd ever read.
Flash forward five years. We were standing in an apartment, several bags overstuffed with contents sat by the door. She was like a fire out of control, teeth ground together and knuckles turning white from clenching her fists so tightly. She gestured towards the bags violently, even kicking one over and making it burst open. My clothes, which I had hastily shoved into the bag, spilled out onto the floor in heaps. She cursed and began to yell. Or she began to cry. Maybe it was both at the same time. I bent down and began to shove the clothes back into the bag, making her even more furious. She grabbed my arm and yanked me upwards.
I didn't mean to hit her. It had been a natural reflex that I had perfected back when I had to walk to school. She gave a small yelp and staggered backwards, holding her cheekbone. I looked down at my clenched fist and immediately hid it behind my back in shame. But the damage had been done. Tori closed her eyes for a minute, probably taking in the pain that throbbed in her cheek and somewhere deeper as well. I had abandoned the clothes on the floor and left them spilling out of the bag. I tried to take a step closer but she flinched back, shielding herself.
"You hit me," She said, a slight break in her voice.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't-"
"You hit me Jade." she repeated. I understood what she meant. Her words ran much deeper than stating the obvious. She was done with me. I bent down and stuffed the remaining clothes back into the bag. I hoisted it up on my shoulder and turned to look at her. She was still against the wall, a shiny bruise forming on her cheekbone. I dropped the bag and took my lighter out of my pocket. It had my name engraved in brilliant gold alongside and beautifully carved flame all against the charcoal black color of the lighter. I went over to the candle that sat half drowning in dried wax on the table. I flicked the igniter once and lit the candle, leaving behind my own flame for Tori to keep, to hold safe and never let die by cold winds. I left the lighter next to the candle and picked up my other bag. I left without saying goodbye.
The next day, Tori was dead. Died when the apartment complex caught fire from a candle that had fallen over onto a stack of papers. My candle. My flame. My fault. I had given my love for fire too many second chances, and now I wouldn't even be able to give Tori any other chance at all. The police called me up the next week. I had to sit in a small, claustrophobic room for two hours while they read off a list of people that died and basically told me it was my fault without directly stating so. Then the chief of police rummaged around in his coat pocket and withdrew a small object and placed it on the table. The name had been charred off but the engraved flame still twinkled in a sickeningly beautiful way despite how many lives it cost.
"This belongs to you I believe." He said. I carefully took the lighter in my hands and curled my fist around it. As I sat there, staring at this seemingly innocent object, my mind blazed and my lips trembled. And I wondered what such a dangerous and stunningly beautiful lover such as fire could consume and destroy in my life next.