we should all burn together {eddie | oneshot}

I've always loved the way heat has the ability to distort the air. It's not exactly a physical being, but then again, neither is air. They push and pull at each other, seeming to create waves across open space. You know they shouldn't be there. You know the horizon is flat, the the sky does not twist and turn in such a manner, that clouds are still and moved only by the breeze. But heat makes you question all of that. Despite knowing these things to be true, heat warps reality in front of your very eyes and suddenly, you're no longer certain if things are actually there.

I dislike books. I wouldn't say I hate them, but I certainly don't enjoy what some people might call 'a good read'. I don't like how solid everything is. Words on a page, block letters, dark ink against ivory paper with certain distinctions between the two. It's easy to tell exactly what's what. It's easy to see the black and the white, with no grey in between. One ends and another begins and that's that. No questions. No uncertainties. And well, that's just plain boring. Not to mention the few books we have can take up hours of valuable time when the younger ones become interested in them. I don't really understand their attachment. Then again, I never understood attachment to anything. The nurses here say my brain is wired differently than everyone else's. I tell them they must lead awfully boring lives.

We have a library of books, or at least, that's what the nurses call it. It's this dusty old room in the back of the Home, more like a closet than anything else. I've caught folks doing a bit more than reading a few times, despite not visiting a lot. It's one shelf of books, rising from floor to ceiling, perhaps five feet across. There's an old, rickety wooden chair in the corner, but no one uses that. Instead they take the threadbare pillows from their beds and use them as cushioning in one of the corners of the room. Or closet, whichever you prefer. Some of them call it their castle.

They stay in there for hours at a time. Wander off, disappear, come back babbling about girls in red capes and boys climbing beanstalks. Of course, that's ridiculous. Beanstalks are far too small to climb. I pity them, quite honestly. They don't realize the adventures they're missing. Some of them don't even know what's past the walls of the Home, because they're too scared to sneak past the nurses with me, or too scared to discover what's on the other side.

But not all of them are like that. Not all of them are sitting in their rooms, obsessing over things like mushrooms and frogs, poring over the massive books on the top shelf until two in the morning. It's the younger ones, mostly. They like to follow me. They're quite good at it too, since they can hide in extremely small spaces. The only issue is that they can be fairly loud at times. We've been caught more than once because some kid started crying, or one couldn't hold back their sneeze and ended up alerting the entire Home as to our whereabouts. I don't mind. What really matters is that they want to get out, that they want to experience the world along with me. That's where the fun begins. On the other side of these four walls.

The books, however, have started to become a problem. So I've decided to do something about it.

Technically, security in the Home is supposed to be tighter at night. But usually it's a bit more lax. Nurses tend to fall asleep, security guards get to chatting away. There aren't many of them to begin with. And of course, none of the lights are on, which provides a whole other level of cover.

Calliope gave me a lighter a few days ago, before the Reaping. It's a sleek little black thing, with a silver cap and switch. I was surprised she gave it to me. But I find it fascinating, and I haven't shown it to anyone since the moment I got my hands on it. It's been easy to slip by the guards. Small enough to fit in my pocket, sometimes even hiding it in my hand when I walk by.

Now, I think it's about to prove its usefulness.

The books were hard to get. There's no lock on the library, unlike basically all the other rooms in the Home, but the problem has been transporting them. I can only carry so many at a time. Three or four at once, under my arms, held tightly to my chest. I've timed it so I'll miss the guards. But still, it's an awful lot of work, sneaking down the halls with three or four books in hand. I've managed somehow.

The back door creaks as I slide it open, but I move slowly, checking every now and then for a stray nurse. None in sight. I get the books outside, tossed into a pile, a couple feet across on the wet grass. Moonlight dances across the colors of different titles. Cinderella, Huckleberry Finn, The Three Little Pigs. All stories I never have and never will read. I don't care for stories, I prefer the real-life version. It's far more entertaining I think.

I gather my books (or rather, their books) together, forming a messy little pile in front of me. Covers flip open, pages blow in the wind, but it doesn't bother me. I'm sure some of the younger residence here would have my head if they knew how careless I was being.

When I'm finished, I sit back, admiring my book. Fire is a beautiful thing. But sometimes, what's even more beautiful, I think, is the moment before it engulfs everything. The moment when there's a chill in the air and you know something is about to happen. The earth lies still, stars halt in their tracks, and my heartbeat slows to a steady thud, thud, thud. My body is cold but my fingers are warm. There's scars on them, white and red skin mixing where it should be one solid color. Burn marks, the nurses say. I call them stories of my own.

I reach in my pocket, lighter slipping between my fingers with the comforting feeling of something familiar. Odd that they call this place a Home. It's a strange place, cold and unwelcoming, full of whiny children and cockroaches and the like. One day I'll leave. But not today. I can't leave yet, because this place hasn't been fixed. The nurses say their job is to fix us, but really, they've got it wrong. They're the ones who need fixing. It's obvious, isn't it? The poor dears just don't realize it yet. They don't understand what they're missing out on. They haven't tasted the thrill, the excitement, and I find that rather sad.

A sigh escapes me and a breeze tousles my red locks. I always liked the color of my hair. It sort of, how would you say, matches my personality, no? A smile pulls at the corner of my lips at my little joke. They think I'm lonely. What they don't know is that I'm the best possible company for myself.

The world slows along with everything else, and for a moment, I can almost hear the earth breathing. Calm and steady. Rise and falling, peacefully beneath my bare feet. They offer us shoes here at the home. But I dislike the feeling of restraint.

"I'm setting you free now." my words are barely audible, a wisp of air lost along with the wind blowing ever so lightly around me. There's starlight in my eyes and hope in my heart. I flick open the lighter, pulling the switch and allowing a pretty blue flame to appear above my fingers. It's beautiful, really. A moment of uncertainty in this world of rules and restraints and organization. I never liked simple things. I never liked the guidelines they use for chains and the borders they use for handcuffs. This is so much more freeing.

I bend down, bring the flame close to the first corner of paper I see. The open space between them closes. White paper turns black, orange tongues lick at black words and my heartbeat quickens from the lull it had a few moments ago. Adrenaline courses through me and I pull back from the flames. I scootch back, folding my legs beneath me until I'm sitting cross-legged on the damp grass. I don't mind that it's wet. The fire will dry it up in a few seconds.

The blaze engulfs their books in what seems to be only a few seconds. One after the other, eating up book after book like the hungry alley cats we get behind the Home. I know the nurses get mad when we feed the cats. But of course, that never stopped me.

Paper turns to ash and one by one the books disappear into the stomach of my life-long friend. I'm always amazed by the inferno that can be created from my little blue flame. It begins to spark, tiny embers popping and flying into the black sky above me, mixing with the stars until I'm not sure I can tell the difference anymore. My smile broadens. That's what I love about fire. The dysfunction it creates, the uncertainty between this reality and whatever other worlds we can't see with our own eyes. I like to think that it gives us a glimpse into those other worlds beyond our comprehension. I suppose it's a bit like what the children talk about in their books, but mine are much more real than their's. They just don't realize it yet.

"Eddie!" a familiar screeching hits my ears and jars me away from my pondering. My brow knits together. I sit up, but I don't turn around. "Eddie Roberts, you get yourself in here right now! Jacob, grab that fire extinguisher for me, will you?"

A groan escapes me and my shoulders slump. I had so hoped I was going to stay out here for longer. Ah, but no matter, my goal has been accomplished. I doubt they'll be able to save any of the books I've managed to bring out here. The window above my head closes, but I can still hear her, stomping down the stairs, followed by the sound of curious children, some chattering and some crying because they've been woken up. With a gentle sigh, I climb to my feet, brushing bits of grass from my nightgown. There's a spark that's landed on it.

For a moment, I watch the little piece of red light, admiring the black circle it forms around empty space. Then it starts to burn my leg and I calmly pat it out. Fire licks the sky behind me, causing my shadow to dance across the grey stone walls of the Home.

I avoid the back door, because I know that's where my captors will attempt to catch me. Instead I scurry around the corner of the building and slip inside a window, held open for me by another one of the children. Annie's her name, sweet girl, but extremely gullible.

"You burned the books."

I halt in my tracks and glance at her. "And?"

She shrugs. "I always liked The Ugly Duckling."

A quiet snort of laughter escapes me, and I shake my head. I never understood books. Never have, never will. I don't bother responding to her. Instead, I tiptoe out of her room, down the hall and peak around the corner into the playroom. The back door sits on the opposite wall.

Sure enough, a few bodies have gathered around, one particularly taller than the others--Miss Jane, the one who was yelling at me a few minutes ago. Her hand is against the door frame, her expression hidden from me.

"Miss? Those are our books, miss." that's little Carlisle, a five-year-old who's house burned down in the heat of July last year.

I can see a girl tugging at Miss Jane's nightgown. "What're we gonna do now, Miss?" Dee, a girl with ash-blond hair, victim of arsonists a couple years back.

The light illuminating their silhouettes is starting to dim. There's a noise coming from outside, probably Jacob with the fire extinguisher. He's one of the guards here, although he seems to like Miss Jane a tad more than everyone else. He's always coming out of her room in the morning, even though the guards and the nurses are supposed to sleep separately. The others seem to turn a blind eye to it.

"Miss Jane?" Carlisle again. "I want my books back."

She shakes her head, and I can only imagine her thin lips pressed tightly together, fingers quivering slightly at her side. "You'll have to find something new to entertain yourself, Carlisle." There's an audible chorus of disappointing noises from the crowd of children as the light behind them flickers out of existence.

"Get back to bed now, or I'll have the guards round you up."

Childish shrieking, followed by the pattering of little feet as they scurry back upstairs, flying to their beds in order to avoid further punishment.

Jacob pops back in and sets the fire extinguisher down on the floor. "They're gone?"

There's an inaudible response from Miss Jane. His hand is on her waist, and then--

"Yuck."

I jump in surprise and look down to see Annie peaking out from beneath my arm, face twisted in disgust.

"Annie!" I say sharply, and push her back as firmly as I can without hurting her. "Get back in bed, will you? I'm staying in your room, I don't wanna sneak past them tonight."

There's a grumble from her direction and I kick at her heel with my foot.

"Alright, alright!" she snaps, and the two of us shuffle back to her dorm, quiet as the mice living in our walls.

Word Count: 2307