eddie roberts {six} fin

Eddie Roberts

Hiss. Snap. Crackle.

It's a glorious sound. Heat causes the wood to sizzle and pop, sparks explode from the walls. A smile pulls at my thin lips. I fold my hands together, legs crossed neatly under me, black smoke billowing over my head like some vast spirit waiting to pounce. Tongues of red and yellow lick the air.

"Eddie, open the door!"

A fist slams against the wall and I can hear them coughing. A tune comes to mind, and I start humming it softly under my breath.

"Eddie, please..."

I can hear her sobbing, but it's getting weaker, and I wonder if they'll ever leave knowing I'm still in here. They're my parents, of course they value my life over their's. They keep banging on the door and shouting my name. I don't answer. Why would I? They've never understood my lust for a thrill, for a rush, for an adventure. It's insanity in their eyes. The thought that I might escape locked handcuffs while I'm submerged in the river? Preposterous. Don't be ridiculous Eddie, of course you can't fall fifty feet and survive. Please Eddie, put the vial down, you'll cause an explosion. No Eddie, you are not invincible. You can't do it Eddie.

But am I? Could I?

Something is eating away at my arm and I'm pulled out of my trance, my curiosity, my wondering. Pale green eyes look down and widen in surprise when I see flames licking at my arm. I don't scream. I don't jump up in panic. I pat it out with the edge of my dress, but I can see there's a raw spot that's already beginning to blister. I look up and scan the room, taking in everything, trying to remember the complete awe I feel at the sight. Heat chews away at my toes. Time to go.

Slowly, I climb to my feet, pushing off the hot floor with my hands. I can feel burns there too. As if in a dream, I cross my bedroom, headed for the open window. Cold air blows in from the outside, pushing bright ginger locks in front of my eyes. I shake my head to remove them. On the desk, which is now ablaze with flames, I catch a glimpse of a matchbox, blackened and almost unrecognizable. The matches we use to light our stove. No one noticed the little girl sneaking into her own kitchen, the tiny hands pulling the box off the counter, quiet feet tiptoeing upstairs to her room. Of course they wouldn't notice me. They rarely do.

The window is already open, and I'm just tall enough to climb over the edge of it and hop down on to the cobblestone street beneath. My shoes clack softly against the cement, but the hissing fire covers the noise. My parent's screams begin to fade.

Darkness covers the alleyway behind our house like a welcoming, chilly blanket. Cool air bites at the burns on my skin, but I don't mind. Innocent eyes flicker around to see if anyone is there. No signs of life. No one has heard or seen the fire, probably because most of them are asleep. This is the easy part. The part where I tell them how I, nine-year-old Eddie Roberts, escaped a house fire.

I set off at a steady skip down the ally, the click-clack of my shoes echoing around me, still humming a quiet tune. I go straight to the neighbors. My hand forms a small fist, and I knock politely on their door at first. No answer. Louder this time.

"Eddie? Sweetheart, what are you...oh God."

Mrs Albert's eyes widen as she looks over my head and sees the red tainting the black sky. I bite my lip and shuffle my feet. No one questions me. No one ever does. Who could blame a child?

"Honey, come inside."

She hurries me in and shouts for her husband. They call the rest of the street, but the fire isn't out till morning. Mrs Alberts sent me to a small bedroom upstairs, where I slept soundly until then. The morning they told me my parents died in the fire. I cried for them. For the Alberts, not for my parents.

*

After the fire, I stayed with the Alberts family for three days. They were nice, and they took good care of me, but they couldn't afford a child. I don't think they really wanted one. So they put me in The Beatrice Lucafont Community Home for Young Arson Victims, where I have lived for the past seven years of my life. The Home lies on a street full of old medical centers, a creaky little building next to concrete grey ones. I had heard rumors about the place before. Oh, the poor children. How terrible to lose one's parents, and at such a young age. Have you heard the stories, though? They say they're all a little odd in the head. I wouldn't go near the place if I were you.

With all the tales that run around the district in whispers and murmurs, the Home can't afford much accommodation for us. We all get our separate rooms, but they're old and dusty, and we just barely get enough food. There's a dirty mirror in the hall that I use to sort out my hair in the mornings. Whenever I go, I'm reminded of my lack of food, my thin body screaming at me for more. I've learned to ignore the screams. Pale fingers run through fiery locks, sharp green eyes flicker back at me. I stand only an inch or two shorter than the other girls who hurry past me for breakfast.

When I was thirteen, I wanted to see how much the Peacekeepers could handle. I snuck out of the home late in the afternoon, and went to the market. Of course they were everywhere. It didn't take long for me to find one, start chatting away, and then start pushing him. Going on about how little food we have, and wouldn't it be so nice if the Capitol could help us out? Hey, who knows, maybe they're keeping all the food for themselves. Maybe they're just selfish.

Oh, what a beating I got that day. Hands tied around a post, shirt peeled off for all to see, leather biting into my skin every time there was a crack that echoed around the whole market. We don't have the best doctors at the Home. The welts didn't heal quite right, and I've had faded purple marks on my back ever since. But it was worth it. Now I know just how far I can go, how long they'll hold out, and how much pain I can take.

*

I've made friends during my stay at the Home. You can't really help it, when you've been there for almost half your life. I've always been a chatty person, making friends with whoever I can, talking to anyone who will listen. Sometimes my mouth moves before my mind does. Blunt, I think is the word they use. Miss Catalin is constantly telling me I have no manners. But really, what's the point in manners? They're a formality, a costume that covers up the truth of a situation. I usually like being open and upfront with my words. Except, of course, when it comes to the fire. No one will ever know about that.

The little ones are my favorite. The kids, I mean. So innocent, so easy, so quick to come with me. They don't ask questions, and they certainly don't tell me I can't do it. Because I can. I can fall fifty feet and survive. I can lock myself in handcuffs and jump into the river with a rock tied around my ankle. I can start a house fire and survive it. I can, I know I can, if I only go about it the right way. And of course, the only way to learn the secret is by trial and error. The staff at the Home stopped asking me long ago why I came back with a fresh bruise or cut or broken bone every time I left. Either they've figured out how I spend my time, or they've grown tired of asking.

Today I tried to jump from one roof to the other. Today I stepped out as far as I could on one of the thinnest branches. Today I held my breath for two minutes in the river.

I suppose they see it as foolishness. I think they just don't see the bigger picture. The possibilities are endless, if you can only figure out how they're attainable. Impossible is a word I despise. I can do it. I can. I can do anything.