Originally posted on my casual blog here, here is “Watching the Flames.”
Fire cw. Author’s notes are in comments. If you prefer audio, AQuestionOfCharacter did an absolutely stunning reading here!
Barnabas Fay had just turned three. It was the first day that he put his hands to the fire.
He would remember Mama’s screams and tears. He did not remember her swearing, or the ache in his ribs as she pulled him from the bonfire. He would not remember the confusion in her eyes as she turned his unburned hands over in hers, over and over and over. He would not remember her thanking the saints for his safety.
Two weeks later came the second day that Barnabas Fay put his hands to the fire.
This time, he would remember Mama’s cursing, one day looking back–words he’d never heard before ringing in his ears as he laughed in delight. He took hold of the flames, splashing them onto his face like water, into his powder-puff hair. He remembered the trembling in her hands as she carried him to douse him in the sink, the itchy craggy texture of his burned and soggy sleeves, the fear in her eyes as she turned his hands over. And over. And over.
On the third day, Mama took him to the priest. The priest said some words and sprinkled water on him. His mother hushed him when he laughed. Barnabas never stopped watching the fire. But he did stop touching it, for a time.
On the fourth day, three years later, Barnabas Fay did not put his hands to the fire. He brought fire to his hands. He stood and watched in quiet concentration as flame burst forth from nothing, grew when he spoke, stilled when he stilled his thoughts.
Barnabas was still bad at words. He held his hands up for Mama’s inspection.
He would remember her looking on in silence, watching the flames with him.
