Your firebending was weak. Pathetic. It hurt to use, and you hated it. Hated the way you couldn’t stop thinking about the flames engulfing your father as he screamed and screamed and screamed. The way his skin blackened and charred and your mother could do nothing as she too burned. She had hardly ever used her bending for more than cooking and lighting the candles and hearth at home. What could she do against a real firebender? You stood there and watched, crouched silent behind the crates, with the heat of the flames licking your skin, as your parents screamed and burned. You hated yourself for your terror, for your helplessness.
Eventually, when they stopped struggling, the firebender took their things and left. At first, you stayed behind the crates, eyes closed, hands over your ears, too terrified to move. What if the firebender came back, what if he got you? The smell of burnt flesh reeked and you tried to block it out, tried to shut out your mother and father’s screaming and moaning. You never knew how long you were cowering behind the crates. But eventually you crawled out, towards your mother. Your father had stopped moving. You caught a glimpse of his face, and the sight will never leave you. Blackened, charred flesh, no features, no discernable face, just a mound of charred meat. Your mother was moaning and writhing weakly on the ground. She didn’t recognize you when you touched her, just moaned in agony. Mama, you cried. Mama I’m scared. The guttural sounds of her cries never left you. You still hear them in your dreams, even now. Half her face was gone. You focused on the half that was still there, bright red and blistered, oozing.
You hadn’t bent for a long time. Every time you tried to summon a flame, you would see him, see them writhing on the ground screaming as they burned.