I remember the first Fire's song I ever heard. Sweet, lulling—destructive, powerful. My father towered over me, fist raised again as he prepared to hit me once more. Behind him was one of Mom's candles.
It was beautiful, truly. Softest shade of orange, white seed in the heart of the flame. At the wick it burned high temperature blue—right on the wick, green. My father yelled and spat at me while I watched that flame, punching me hard in the jaw as I gave no response.
That little flame held me captive.
"You little brain-dead, son of a—"
The fire's flame wavered, another kick cracked a rib. The siren's song flared, the wax slid down the base in faster rivets.
So beautiful . . .
"Listen to me, you—!"
I don't know what he had in plan to say. I don't think I care. The tiny little fire-flame gushed into an inferno, a symphony—my mother and father screamed as the apartment caught aflame.
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Maybe the shock, and the pain, have worn off. Maybe the Fire song has quieted, a soft lullaby in the back of my mind, churning every sound into it's softest voice. Maybe the ashes of my parents have been buried into the soot, and maybe my powers don't protect me from my smoke.
The apartment fires die as the curtains, couch, and ceiling ash remains smother itself out. Wait . . . it's rain doing the job . . .
I feel cold as a white-haired woman lands from the sky. She doesn't look old, and neither does the man with the funny sunglasses beside her. They look around the ruins, I guess, not seeing me because my clothes and face and hair are heavy with ash and I blend. Or maybe they're like the kids at school, or the teachers, seeing me, but choosing to over look me, to skip over me. I understand . . .
"Scott, over here!" The white-haired woman calls her friend over, through the scaffolding that was once the walls of the living room. My parents stumbled in there after the fire caught them.
"They didn't make it."
"Think the boy's power made him fire-proof? Or . . ."
"No. The professor said he was—"
"Shh."
I stiffen with them, halting my trembling from the rain that poured and stopped as soon as the fire was out. The soot mixes strangely with the rain, cementing into mud, caking around my eyes. I want to wipe at them, scrub the grim out, 'cause they're starting to burn in a not-good way, but these people aren't moving. Scott stands just as still as the lady, for so long too. My shaking finally can't be controlled, and the trembling begins with such renewed vigor once it starts. The lady sees the boards around me shudder I guess, because I certainly hear them.
She's suddenly there, on her knees, very pretty. Her eyes are dark, and they bear into me like coals.
"Hi, sweetie, are you okay?" She asks so kindly, so nicely. Like a fictional character from a book. She carefully cups one hand around my cheek, cautiously, watching for my reaction. I've never had someone care about what they did to me. She rubs her thumb over my face, leaving me to realize I've been crying. Or is it just rain?
"It's okay. My name's Storm. What's yours?"
"John . . . M-My name's John Allerdyce."