Going up in flames
He remembers the heat. Oh sure, he remembers the flames and the way he could smell his hair, singed, and the pain across his back and shoulder. He remembers those just fine. But he remembers the heat first. The brightness of the fire that had made it difficult to see after the close-up exposure.
He remembers pulling himself out of the car, heart pounding and coughing from the smoke. He remembers the car bursting into more flames as it hit the main source of gasoline. He remembers leaning against the tree with his side and not his back, though he had leaned back against it originally, only to turn instantly with sharp regret from the pain.
Scared. He'd been so scared. It wasn't comparable to the first time he'd killed someone barely a few months ago, but.
He barely remembers how he got to the hospital and back into his family's care. He's sure he did something right because he hadn't ended up dead by some rival's hand, but he barely remembers the details of it anymore. Laughs it off, actually.
His back healed slowly. His mind even slower. For weeks afterwards, he stepped back from heat sources out of instinct. It was a long time before he could look at the candles in the church without flinching inwardly or outwardly. He preferred a car's electric lighter to his usual Zippo. His tattoo was as much therapy as it was symbolism.
It doesn't bother him as much anymore. Not like it used to. But sometimes he catches himself staring at the flame of his lighter as he lights up a cigarette in wary respect.
He remembers pulling himself out of the car, heart pounding and coughing from the smoke. He remembers the car bursting into more flames as it hit the main source of gasoline. He remembers leaning against the tree with his side and not his back, though he had leaned back against it originally, only to turn instantly with sharp regret from the pain.
Scared. He'd been so scared. It wasn't comparable to the first time he'd killed someone barely a few months ago, but.
He barely remembers how he got to the hospital and back into his family's care. He's sure he did something right because he hadn't ended up dead by some rival's hand, but he barely remembers the details of it anymore. Laughs it off, actually.
His back healed slowly. His mind even slower. For weeks afterwards, he stepped back from heat sources out of instinct. It was a long time before he could look at the candles in the church without flinching inwardly or outwardly. He preferred a car's electric lighter to his usual Zippo. His tattoo was as much therapy as it was symbolism.
It doesn't bother him as much anymore. Not like it used to. But sometimes he catches himself staring at the flame of his lighter as he lights up a cigarette in wary respect.