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intheheartTitle: Fire
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery.
Summary: Jake Foster, and fire.
Notes: none
WARNING for self-injury.
His mother let him light the candles for Ammie's birthday cake, the year she turned seven and he turned five. She handed him the match, one of the long ones that she used to light fireplace fires and the oven pilot light, with the flame already dancing on the end.
It was beautiful, the fire. Orange and red and friendly-looking. Jake didn't touch it, because Mommy had said don't touch, in her scary voice, but he wanted to.
Ammie blew the candles out with a whoosh, and the pretty fire went away, and he forgot about it. For a while.
--
Boys didn't have sleepovers, but if they did, this one would've been the best ever. They played Calvinball until it got dark (Jake's idea), stuffed themselves on pizza, then played video games until Victor's mom hollered at them to go to bed.
They'd sneaked out at three AM with the cigars Eric stole from his grandparents. Not that Jake liked them-- they were gross-- but the lighter was fun. He played with it until they sneaked back in, flicking it open and shut.
When he got home in the morning, he thought at first he was dreaming of that lighter.
--
He knew how they'd died. His social worker thought they'd kept it from him, but he got hold of the police report, and he knew.
His sisters died in their sleep, of smoke inhalation; they never woke up, they never knew it was coming. His father died when the floor collapsed under him; he broke his neck on impact, he never felt the burns. But his mother burned to death, trapped in her bedroom, screaming for help.
He didn't understand why his foster mother got so upset, when she caught him. He only wanted to know how it felt.
--
The scar dwindled down to a coin-sized, irregular patch, a paler rough spot on his palm. No one really noticed it, including Jake-- he forgot that he had it, half the time, until he caught himself rubbing it absently, one morning in bed.
Depression was cold, a smothering wet blanket over his spirit. It meant he couldn't get out of bed, meant he couldn't talk or think or do much other than stare at the ceiling and wish for home.
The scar was rough against his fingers; warm, like it was still burning.
He would rather have fire than this.
--
After law school, hours before he took the bar (with all the stress and endless studying and occasional bouts of tears that involved), he found himself in a convenience store at a ridiculous hour of the morning, staring at a display of lighters.
They were stupid, cheap plastic things. They probably didn’t work reliably; he'd seen a guy outside shaking one, cursing.
He hadn't touched a match or a lighter since the day he'd burned himself. He didn't need to; didn't smoke or use candles. He didn't need one.
The lighters were fifty cents each. He had just enough change.
--
Mrs. Hirschfeld asked him once why he carried a lighter. She knew how his parents died; he'd told her, as detachedly as he could, but she'd seen through that, and asked, and held him when he cried. He was more grateful for that than she knew.
When she noticed the lighter, a couple weeks later, she asked, because she cared.
It was because she cared that he told her the truth. He wouldn't tell it to anyone else (except Olivia, if she asked), but Ms. Hirschfeld deserved it.
"So I can control it," he told her, and rubbed his scar.
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery.
Summary: Jake Foster, and fire.
Notes: none
WARNING for self-injury.
His mother let him light the candles for Ammie's birthday cake, the year she turned seven and he turned five. She handed him the match, one of the long ones that she used to light fireplace fires and the oven pilot light, with the flame already dancing on the end.
It was beautiful, the fire. Orange and red and friendly-looking. Jake didn't touch it, because Mommy had said don't touch, in her scary voice, but he wanted to.
Ammie blew the candles out with a whoosh, and the pretty fire went away, and he forgot about it. For a while.
--
Boys didn't have sleepovers, but if they did, this one would've been the best ever. They played Calvinball until it got dark (Jake's idea), stuffed themselves on pizza, then played video games until Victor's mom hollered at them to go to bed.
They'd sneaked out at three AM with the cigars Eric stole from his grandparents. Not that Jake liked them-- they were gross-- but the lighter was fun. He played with it until they sneaked back in, flicking it open and shut.
When he got home in the morning, he thought at first he was dreaming of that lighter.
--
He knew how they'd died. His social worker thought they'd kept it from him, but he got hold of the police report, and he knew.
His sisters died in their sleep, of smoke inhalation; they never woke up, they never knew it was coming. His father died when the floor collapsed under him; he broke his neck on impact, he never felt the burns. But his mother burned to death, trapped in her bedroom, screaming for help.
He didn't understand why his foster mother got so upset, when she caught him. He only wanted to know how it felt.
--
The scar dwindled down to a coin-sized, irregular patch, a paler rough spot on his palm. No one really noticed it, including Jake-- he forgot that he had it, half the time, until he caught himself rubbing it absently, one morning in bed.
Depression was cold, a smothering wet blanket over his spirit. It meant he couldn't get out of bed, meant he couldn't talk or think or do much other than stare at the ceiling and wish for home.
The scar was rough against his fingers; warm, like it was still burning.
He would rather have fire than this.
--
After law school, hours before he took the bar (with all the stress and endless studying and occasional bouts of tears that involved), he found himself in a convenience store at a ridiculous hour of the morning, staring at a display of lighters.
They were stupid, cheap plastic things. They probably didn’t work reliably; he'd seen a guy outside shaking one, cursing.
He hadn't touched a match or a lighter since the day he'd burned himself. He didn't need to; didn't smoke or use candles. He didn't need one.
The lighters were fifty cents each. He had just enough change.
--
Mrs. Hirschfeld asked him once why he carried a lighter. She knew how his parents died; he'd told her, as detachedly as he could, but she'd seen through that, and asked, and held him when he cried. He was more grateful for that than she knew.
When she noticed the lighter, a couple weeks later, she asked, because she cared.
It was because she cared that he told her the truth. He wouldn't tell it to anyone else (except Olivia, if she asked), but Ms. Hirschfeld deserved it.
"So I can control it," he told her, and rubbed his scar.
