Scrape a match on the rough sandpaper side of the box. Snap back the little tongue on a Bic. Hold a lens in strong sunlight and wait for the hot beam to set a scrap of paper ablaze.
A burning whisper, a tongue of fire, a screaming mouth of flames.
Yeah, that's where it starts.
I'm not a pyro. That's what people think when I talk about fire. They figure I'm some messed up pyro-girl who gets off on burning burning burning. First it's matches, then the candles, then a torch made of gas-soaked rags.
Truth be told, I'm actually afraid of fire. I mean, I've always been drawn to it. I can't hardly keep my eyes away. There's definitely something there that pulls me closer. But at the same time, it makes me feel weak. And afraid.
A roaring red wind. A swirling current of flames. Heat, raw heat. And the buzz and the crackle and the moan of pure fire.
I know about pyros. Those kind of people are sick, and they're crazy. And it's not like that for me. Not at all.
But still, it starts with fire.