The flames of a child

I was very little and I already knew I didn’t like teddy bears. They were just furry, cute toys with a happy look that I wasn’t quite passionate for. My object of attention was everything that had a function; any object that would demonstrate a process of cause and effect. I wanted to know what made my racing car run all over the bedroom floor. What made it stop, or turn? I wanted to know how the goldfish could swim on the fishbowl. What was inside the television that made it so special and magical? So since I was a child I was interested in how things work. Why things work.

My curiosity was such, that I gained the title of Earthquake Boy by my dear mum. Some way or another I would always manage to start investigations that led me to the greatest horrors (and victories) of my childhood, in order to satisfy my thirst of knowledge. In consequence my car would end up broken up into thousands of pieces, the intriguing television crashed on the kitchen floor and my beautiful, orange goldfish went crashing down the stairs in his bowl.

It wasn’t my mum’s wish to leave me alone with my six year old brother on the morning after my 5th birthday, but she had to leave the house for an urgent matter, and she could not take us with her. Her sister, my aunt, was meant to come and stay with us few minutes after she left. My brother was playing with toys on the living room and I went into my parent’s bedroom. They used to have a very ugly teddy bear on top of the bed, which actually looked more like a cat with rounded ears. I started opening drawers and cupboards searching for something that would take my interest. Finally, I found a tiny box, on a shelf next to my dad’s bedside. It made a strange noise when I shook it. When I managed to open it I found some small, wooden sticks that I had seen before, and I knew what to do with them, as I had seen my dad doing it many times.

I lay down on the bed and started rubbing the matches against the rough side of the box, and I was fascinated by the flame that exploded as a result; I kept on doing it, again and again. It got to a point where that small flame wasn’t enough, so I looked around thinking what could make my game more interesting. I didn’t have to look far to find the hideous teddy bear that would be the subject of my experiment. I lit the whole box of matches. I moved my hand closer to the face of furry toy and made contact, and suddenly the teddy bear was on fire.

It was wonderful and exciting for the first few seconds, but my heart began to feel afraid, contemplating what was going to happen next: The fire went from the, now malformed, toy to the bed sheets, from there to the mattress and the pillows. I jumped off the bed and I stared at the scene. The flames were running now along the curtains and there was a growing, dense cloud of black smoke. I was paralyzed. I was scared. Before I could realize my brother took me from my hand and dragged me out of the bedroom. A last look towards the bedroom, while I was taken out, revealed a hell made of smoke and raging flames. There was not a single item that was left out by the hungry fire.

My brother took me under the table in the living room. This space was always our safety place during our war games. There, under the dining table, nothing could ever harm us; there was no monster or scary creature that could lay their claws on us. It was our fortress.

We saw the smoke coming into the living room like a soldier from the darkness searching for prey, and I felt sleepy. The last thing I remember was my brother, like a knight, getting out from underneath the table and standing up.

When I woke up, there were many people around me. My mum was there, and Grandma and Grandpa. They were crying and distressed. Where was my Brother? I looked around and I could see him smiling, but scared at the same time. Everybody seemed to cheer at him. Later on I found out that he had taken me out of the house when we saw the smoke in the living room and I collapsed.

For years I tried to figure out how my brother was able to take me out of the house. Where his strength came from? What made a six years old boy stand up to the Death and get away with it? That event changed his life as much as it changed mine. He is now a strong, honest, wise and caring person.

I can say about me, that I am still fascinated about the functionality of everything around me, even more passionate: I respect the fire more than I respect my brother and I still hate teddy bears.