atticus rain, district four

Fire is a daunting beast to many human beings that prowl this earth. It is a peril to avoid. Its crackle is a feral warning growl—step away or burn. And the light from the tongues of flames, reaching into the sky like claws of a ravenous monster, is a beacon of danger.

But I am not among these fools people.

Fire is a friend of mine and the hearth is my home. Its light is a soft, gentle, comforting glow and its warmth melts my burdens and worries like candle wax. And fire can be a weapon—those who fear it are paranoid but they are not fools—but it is a weapon that is on my side, a weapon I wield as if it is ignited from my own fingertips.

Flames destroy like no other. There are many destructive things—and people—in this world, but it all pales in comparison to fire. Cruel words chip away at the heart until there is nothing but a blackened stub left. Steel slices through bone and summons seas of blood. Water weathers away the strongest stone cities. (But the destruction is too gradual.) Wind rips apart buildings and families, stripping them down to a frail frame of what they once were. (And sometimes there is nothing left at all.) The earth shakes durable structures that scrape the sky to rubble.

But fire . . . fire devours its victim like a savage beast. Ashes are the only remnants, the sole reminder of what was lost. (And the pain that rakes the insides of grievers.) It is the epitome if not the definition of destruction.

(So light 'em up.)

I feel my family's worrisome eyes scraping against my back when I sit before the hearth, burning shreds of paper, switching lighters on and off, timing how long fire takes to reduce different objects to ash. But they have learned better than to pull me away, as my temper burns brighter than any flame.

Long ago, I accepted that I was not like them—would never be like them. Their blood runs through my veins and their flesh covers my skin, but they are tranquil seas of ice and I am an untamed white hot inferno. But this nature is indigenous to me—it comes as easily as a heartbeat—and can never be extinguished.

My father and I, we have the same angular face and skin, kissed lightly by the sun that watches over the vast ocean that stretches endlessly off the coast of District Four. And my mother gave me the gift of her eyes, a pair of saucers vibrant and blue as the morning glory flowers that thrive in her flowerbed. The thick, fair blond hair that sprouts from my scalp was bestowed upon me by both of my parents, a perfect mixture of golden wheat and corn silk.

I hear their whispers at family gatherings, of how I am not the child they raised. That I am not the golden boy they brought up. I frighten them with my love of fire, the strange bond I seem to have formed with it, something I cannot even touch without it burning my skin. But they misunderstand. I do not want to embrace fire like an old friend or kiss it goodnight. I love fire like I love the sunlight that streams in through the trees, warming my skin, but at a greater magnitude.

Mother and Father, I am still the golden boy you always wanted, but with an obsessive twist.

(At least I am not a killer.)

Mother and Father, if you wanted a normal child so sorely, why did you not pull me away from the flames the moment I crawled near it when I was just an infant?

(Oh, that's right. You were too busy betraying each other and digging your own graves to an unhealthy marriage, Mother and Father.)

When my Father and I clash swords in our weekly battles, I use his favorite evening activities against him, which only makes him roar louder.

"Don't you dare speak to me like that!"

"I guess you're not perfect, either, just like me. No, if I am truly bad in any way at all, I'm better than you. 'Cause you're a fucking bastard."

"This arrogance of yours needs to stop, Atticus! And that dirty mouth, too!"

But I am not arrogant, Father, though I will admit, with no shame, that my language is foul. I am just angry. (I suppose I learned from only the very best.) You scorn me and tell me that because I meddle with fire like it is a toy—and it is not a toy, it is a pleasure of life just as dessert is—I am damaged. But I am not the one standing my ground with twisted morals, yelling at his son over his very own faults, angry solely because I am not blind to them. I see them clear as day and he hates it. He is usually a calm blue sky but I seem to be the only one who can stir storm clouds in him.

(It almost amuses me, that I, a child, have his anger wrapped around my nimble finger. If only I had control over my own.)

When he towers over me, his features so similar to mine ablaze with fury, I want to laugh at him. (If I did, there is no telling what he would do.) He tries to be intimidating, but I am not easily shaken. Although I stand in his shadow (I am far taller than average but not as tall as him), my heart hammers with not fear but pure rage and my veins tingle with not an edge of terror but a blaze anger.

And I'll say something along the lines of, "When is your dick finally going to fall off after screwing so many women?"

That will be the last straw, the final blow.

In that instant, all of his icy calm will melt under the flame of my words, which Mother would characterize as "sailor talk."

Everything will slamming doors and wrathful screams for rest of our fight.