Apparently I'm the funny one here.

Always smiling that smile, or cracking those jokes (haha).

"Poor child," they say. "Mentally unstable. Scarred. Pyromanic."

Yes, I'm pyromanic.

I found that out at the orphanage.

I like fire.

Watching fire.

Playing with fire.

Watching it burn stuff.

Paper, clothing.

A few times, even my skin.

For a while, it was okay.

Well, not okay. Nothing has ever been okay.

But it was decent, I guess.

No one bothered to ask why my hands were burnt and charred.

No one cared.

The orphanage couldn't care less about a scrawny fire-crazy boy named Leo Valdez.

What they could care about, though, is when that scrawny fire-crazy boy set fire to a tree. Which set fire to the grass. Which set fire to the orphanage.

Oops.

Now I'm here.

Always smiling that smile, or cracking those jokes (haha).

Trying to hold on to my last threads of sanity.

But aside from that, I'm not crazy