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Heat of the Moment

It was the fire. The embers flickered and begged for mercy to fly away and spread the sweet warmth embracing them. All the while, the actually flame remained in place, grounded to the fact that it knows where its exactly supposed to be, without a doubt in its mind, its fine in that house…
I could lie.
I could make a great lie up for you that I didn’t mean to do it. That it was just an accident, don’t be mad with me, or please help me stop the fire, but where is the fun in that? How can I acquire the credit if I don’t ask for it?
Someday I wish to embody the flames, have my body share their feelings for a moment, even if only a moment. The absolute freedom, but the pain that comes with it, a perfect balance of sane and insanity will do me nicely.
“Greco,” An all too familiar voice addresses my name. He doesn’t use emotion in his words, only the words themselves will tell me all I need to know, how he feels, why he’s upset with me. That’s how it’s always worked. This is how Brannon works “You shouldn’t have done this, nor should you have run away again… but you know this? Why do you make such an effort to distress the board? Besides, doesn’t this heinous crime seem more cynical than your normal endeavors?”
By board he means the people studying my growth as a human being and a mutant. They call me an arsonist, but the moment I use my power in any way I wish, it’s a crime, however if I do as they ask, everyone is happy.
Feeling run down and disappointed, I only take one more look at this house burning to the ground. It’s almost unreal how much the fire is engulfing the home behind the black back drop of the night sky. It’s a torch of warmth and light in the darkness… Swiftly I turn away as I hear an echo of the roof collapsing, beginning to walk towards the black SUV parked on the road.
Silently, I rest on the leather seat, squirming a bit and adjust the air conditioner before I am comfortable. The only problem of being an arsonist is everywhere and at all times, I am hot. A cliché thing to think of, but clichés are here for a reason, because some things in this world are just obvious.
After me, Brannon follows into the driver’s seat and I prop my feet onto the dash board.
“Are you hot?” He asks out of politeness.
“No…” I mumble, glancing towards the house, regretting I don’t have a camera. No, that would only cheapen it.
The drive is quiet, but I don’t really notice watching the house shrink as we make our lonely run for it. And just because he’s him, he doesn’t ask a single question. I’ve had many theories why Brannon is so unemotional. My favorite is he’s a robot. Though, from rumors between the other kids watched over by the board, he’s an Impath, one that can feel the emotions of everyone around him…
We’ve learned one thing about our powers, something I take to heart, is that to have them we must have given something up. So to know everyone else’s emotions he must have none. That’s why people say I’m cold, ironically when my world is based around heat.
“If you wish to not speak that is your rightful decision.” Brannon comments, turning into a vibrant city of colors and lights, constantly moving around like fire flies literally on fire.
It fascinates my curiosity so my tone sounds vacant as I try to explain, not wanting to get all pathetic and emotional, starring into the lights “That house wasn’t my old house or even one I’ve ever been in… it used to be Kenny Brian’s, an old classmate. He called me weird. He called me strange, that I’d always be a little freak to go nowhere. It was my attraction with fire that made Kenny Brian want torture me. He’d take a lighter and pretend to try to set my clothes or hair on fire, sometimes he’d even burn my arm or fingers…”
I peak over to Brannon for any sense of reaction, but that blank look still camps there. I just go on, “I recently found out his bullying sent him to a correctional school from an expensive private school. He has to come home… well, not anymore I guess. No one was in there,” I assure him, “I just wanted to tell him that I’m not the one with nothing.”
Just as I’m ready to crumble in this horrible melancholy feeling, Brannon pops this out from nowhere, “How poetic.”
Was that… did he just make a joke?
Surprised and taken off guard, I chuckle “What? Brannon was that sarcasm?”
“Perhaps. It only seemed appropriate. I do apologize if it wasn’t.”
“No! No!” I laugh, sitting up in my seat, “That was, that was funny.”
“Well you are funny too Greco.”
“Funny,” I seem to chuckle again, “that’s just the nice way of saying weird or crazy.”
“Then call me nice.”



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