i've never told a lie & that makes me a liar{Onyx}

There once lived a creature of the Fire who was not sure of herself. She lived in a prison, in an even larger prison; a creaking, bulging house within a smelly, smoggy ring of electric fencing. She was not happy, and spent her days prowling, and forever burning, in hope it might tell her what she was. Her eyes grew dark with paranoia and large with the sights she had seen, her skin pale with lack of exposure to any light but her flames, her fur feathers scales hair curled and weak with lack of any care in her fretful state. The only way she could possible free herself was by finding out who she had to be.

At first, the fire girl thought she must be a phoenix. For what had she been in her previous life? Nothing more than a frail nightingale, singing her heart out for people whenever they asked her to. She would skip and laugh, her burnt crimson feathers in funny little plaits, living in a brick cage. She was a pretty little singer, until her cage burnt down. The little bird didn't know what to do in the big wide world, and now her trainer, her most loving groomer, was also dead. She wouldn't sing for anyone, least of all her quickly dwindling "owners", or the other birds around her. They were eagles, owls, and they tore her apart. Her wings were broken, her feathers twisted and splayed. The only thing she kept protected was her voice; suppressed but glowing like an ember, and it was not yet time to let it burn. And her proof for being a phoenix? When it was time to burn, she did. She burnt herself and she burnt the big birds, and frightened them, sending them scrabbling away like their wings didn't work. A tiny songbird had reduced the kings of the skies to nothing more than foolish penguins. And then she had melted the slippery ice they stood on with her phoenix song. They took her to a home, but they couldn't deny that she was reborn in that moment, her strength renewed.

But who is she now? Still a fire creature at heart, but a gutter rat. She sits in a corner of a dead end which seems to represent this whole chapter of her life, idly conjuring up a substitute for her now ashen wings. It is too early for her to be born again, what sort of a phoenix is left with no fuel before its time for rebirth? So she threw the notion aside.

But perhaps she was a dragon? She had the fury of one, indeed, and hard, black burns scales that protected her from her own flames, and the harsh attacks of others. And when she wanted to, she could breathe fire right back, setting alight anyone who came near enough to her, sending their slender cinders to the skies on a whisper of smoke. She was feared, no doubt, and silent as Night Fury, so the legends named the most fearsome of dragons, when she wanted to be. Fire-breathing monster had a certain ring to it she liked… And yet, dragons could fly, and by thoughtlessly wasting flames, tossing them aside one by one without appreciating their individual beauty, the sheer brilliance of every spark and every new hiss of kindled power, this creature is not flying. Why, she can fly, but she chooses to stay thoroughly grounded. And so she is no dragon.
But one thing is becoming more and more evident to her. As the sky crackles with electricity of an oncoming storm, and people hurry by the open end of her hiding place, throwing her casual glances of disinterest as they think about only themselves, she can have the fury of a hellhound. Inside her it boils, a rage that starts so subtle, like the deliciously orange embers that shift into a fire, or a single fuse that launches a fleet of rocket fireworks into the night, and with every person that passes her way, she wishes to burn them more. She craves the sound of sweat steaming too fast, of skin dripping from bones like hot, stinking cream. She lives for the smells and the sour taste of smoking hair, the stupid strangers not understand that running around can't save them now.

But perhaps her prayer has been answered, as one lone boy wanders down the alleyway, staring at her and her matches intently. He mumbles something about nutcases and a smile begins to play on the fire creature's lips. Of course I'm mad, we're all mad here. The prison she lives in is full of nutcases, each one worse than her. Why, she is almost sane, and she cannot comprehend why none of the other kids want to play with her and her matches. But perhaps this boy will play. "Hey, you!" he cries, clearly knowing what fire spirit she is as little as she does. And she had hoped for help. "I'm looking for a Mr. Lund McCarthy... You heard of him?" The name meant something to the girl, but she didn't know why. She had never encountered him, or set him alight. She knew the names of all her victims. She liked to look them in the eye as they burnt, before she let them go again, and tell them how beautiful they were. Well, it was only polite.

The girl blew out the match she was holding, tossed it aside and stared this boy down. She was much older than he was, and much more able to overpower him than he could her. Still smiling her wicked smile, the girl thought well now, won't this be fun? and, clinging onto her matches, her wooden strength, the hellhound pounced.