A Necessary Flame

Fire. A natural element. He rises, he falls, he brightens, he burns. But what fascinates me so is how his purpose can be to save a life or to destroy one. In war, Fire kills. He burns away the lives of the innocent, the guilty, and everything in between. Everything his light touches turns to darkness. Homes are demolished in an instant, suddenly nothing but memories. Ashes.
But it is in this moment he reveals to us his heart. Deep within the flame, there is a warmth that cannot be found anywhere else. He shelters us with his warmth—whether it be a campfire to keep from the cold or a stove to quench our hunger—keeping us safe. Keeping us alive. But I can assure you, no one knows where his true alliances lie. 

Isn’t it funny how something so destructive can be so absolutely necessary?

What really gets me is that people don’t even understand how much we revolve around Fire (literally). I bet you don’t even know how much we depend on him. No? Let me refresh your memory. Remember that massive ball of energy, towering above us in the sky? Yeah. That’s Fire. If the sun wasn’t perched upon his throne among the stars, well, you wouldn’t be here reading this. The sun gives us life. He keeps us warm, lights the way, nurtures us, protects us. But while doing so, he charges towards us, like a thorn poking between the eyes. We know he’s there, we know he’s carrying our demise with him, and yet we wait. Eventually, that same sun who protects us, shelters us, and guides us, is going to devour our very existence. And we know this.

Ambiguity is our worst fear, yet we welcome it with open arms. Can you believe it?

When I was a young boy, my parents and I were some of the less fortunate civilians. We lived in a run-down apartment, a dark and dank demimonde exposed to the still more desirable sewer fumes (Can you believe it?). It wasn’t a nice place (as you can probably guess). The wallpaper was a distasteful vermilion and the carpet stained. The fray, strays and fey, dust, rust and lust, and the whole rotten lot were our only companions during those long dark dismal days. We were the perfect synecdoche of misery, you and me.
Our landlord was a middle-aged man with eyes beetle-black as night, a bad leg on the right, and a knack for inappropriate and unintelligent language. The scent of beer slipped from his lips with every disgusting word, and a cheap cigarette was always wedged behind his waxy ear—you know, the kind you roll yourself with damp tobacco and catchpenny paper. 
I was sprawled across our living room floor playing with a match when I heard my mother screaming in the hallway. Through the crack beneath our door I could see two pairs of feet on the other side—my mother’s and the landlord’s. Their shadows bounced beneath the door, seeping through the light and into our apartment. My mother was shouting words I couldn’t understand, inaudible pants of helplessness and fear. She was begging him to give them one more week, just one more week to pay the rent, but he refused to accede. Sick of her tiresome pleading, he sent a sturdy fist right into her skull, just as I lit my match. 
My mother fell to the floor in tears, defeated whimpers escaping her bleeding lips. She lay there for a while, and I dumbly stared through the crack in the door with young, unknowing eyes, flickering match in trembling hand.

But the Fire always knows, always sees, and always remembers.

Later that evening, our packed bags resided in the corner of our empty apartment, waiting to be taken out the next morning. Unable to stay a minute longer, my father and mother went out to a bar and left me alone with the landlord. Sickened by me and my childish tendencies, he locked himself in his apartment and paid no attention to the little boy with fire in his eyes.
My parents had said they would be out late, and a window of opportunity was opened. I was furious with our landlord; I hated him. He had caused my mother pain, caused our entire family pain, and I wasn’t going to stand for that. It was late, but I hadn’t seen my parents come back yet. I remembered my father showing me how to start a fire with gasoline on the nights when we needed a fire and nature wasn’t on our side. I had seen how magnificently the chemical caught fire, exploding into an uproar of dancing flames. Sneaking into the basement, I snatched a jug of that devil’s juice and drowned every inch of the complex in its greasy glint. That was the hint. With my eyes a red-maddening tint, I kissed the blackening flint. Sparks flew and I knew. It tasted of mint, and I felt the dint of it... 

I think you know where this is going...

.U.R.U...G.R.O.W.L.!.!.

I stood outside the burning building with a smug smile of satisfaction on my face as I watched the flakes of that dreaded wallpaper float up into the sky and turn to ash. I could hear comforting screams of terror echo through the smoky air and I felt Power. It was fascinating to me how something so small as a match could cause so much incredible destruction (and creation). In that moment, the Dragon was born.
Little did I know that in that very instant, that very second, my parents were being consumed in a fire of their own, their entwined bloods rising up into a vermilion-draped flame of ecstasy and agony. Funny how something as small as a simple shake of a spear could cause God himself to weep tears of pure nacrelescent jazz to swing the heavens. They died that night in each other’s arms, and I was reborn in yours. I was Dragon and Fire. I was Power Incarnate.

Two fires in one night, can you believe that?

The deaths of my parents altered my character greatly, as any great childhood trauma would. I was solitary and cold on the outside, and when I did speak I was rude. It wasn’t my intention—to be rude, I mean—but I was. My tone was negative. I carried a scowl. People avoided me. As you can probably infer, I didn’t fit in. But then I was an adolescent, and all I wanted for myself was to fit in. The only problem was that nobody wanted to be around the little boy with FIRE in his eyes. That little boy couldn’t be trusted. There be Dragons in there...
Everyone knew that I was homeless. It was a small town, word got around. People said they cared and the same phrases floated around. “Oh, that poor boy,” they would say. But did they act? No. I learned the truth behind humanity during that time. The unspoken truth that nobody really cares. They’ll say they care, they’ll say they want to help you, but they don’t. (I mean, would you?)
I was forced to wander the streets alone, observing and analyzing the fuzzy world around me. The city was boring. Men dressed in suits walked steadily to their jobs, oblivious children played in the streets, women in painted faces gossiped about each other at the local cafes, life went on. But me? I didn’t want that life. I wanted the true life, the jizz-jazz and flim-flam and the DRAGONFIRE of my inner world only I could see, inside the sweet ambrosia of that gasoline can’s vital aroma...

...URU...GROWL!!...

A local carnival came through our town, deformed and mentally disfigured humans parading and flaunting their abnormalities. It was intriguing to see so many misunderstood creatures waltz around so proudly, supportive of the term “freak show.” (If only you’d been there, then you would understand what I mean.) They were so irrevocably content with what life had handed them. They were different, unique, strange, disfigured, unwanted, freaky, rejected, judged, forgotten, forbidden, forsaken, fallen. It was then that I realized where I belonged. I became a Fallen One.
I’m sure you would never join a traveling circus. I’m sure you are far too advanced, intelligently conforming to what society has laid out for you, to even consider something like this. I’m sure you are one of those narrow-minded folks who called our show “pornography of the disfigured.” You are probably reading this and judging me, wondering why I could ever participate in such a disgusting act. But I never told you I was the protagonist of this story. I was simply the agonist.
My act was breathing fire, but that shouldn’t surprise you. I was the youngest fire eater in America—at least, that’s what they called me. My act involved many tricks, but the moment I swallowed fire was the moment that no one forgot. I became the Sun. I became...Him.
“You’re a freak,” they would shout, some cheering me on, others throwing popcorn and stones in my direction. However, that didn’t bother me. I was proud to be different, and I loved to cause my viewers both mental and physical distress. I smiled when they cringed, and laughed when they screamed. Their horror was my pleasure; it kept me alive. I was known as Dragonetti the fire-breathing drunk and instrument of God. I became Concordia and Discordia, pleasure and pain, truth and blasphemy, all wrapped up in one perfect fireball of sin and salvation.
Bellini was in charge of the freak show. He told us where to go, what to do, and how to do it. I’d never really held a conversation with him; he always seemed to avoid me more than the other carnies. There was an unmistakable tension between us, especially when I had fire in my grasp. I was, however, fascinated with him. His face was disfigured, his skin warped like an oil palette, eyes black as night staring coldly into whoever crossed his path. Bellini was a burn victim, and I assume that was why he was so uncomfortable around me. He didn’t understand Fire; he didn’t understand how it could be so vicious and destructive and yet gentle and restorative, and you always fear what you don’t understand. But that is simply because he didn’t know your name.
Because Bellini was so tormented by fire, I made it a game to play tricks on him with tiny explosives and hidden flames. The rest of the carnies enjoyed my pranks, but Bellini almost kicked me out because of it. I wasn’t even sure why he hired me until I realized how many viewers I was bringing in. People were fascinated with my act; it was suspenseful, nerve-wracking, unbelievable and exciting. I loved to see the sheer shock and disgust on their faces once I’d finished. Every show ended with a satisfactory curling of my burnt lips. And theirs as well by the time they got home and saw my light, heard my song, felt my flame and perhaps remembered my name in the corners of their dreams... 

...URU, GROWL!!...

Bellini eventually made my act the second to last, right before the grand finale. Before my performance, the rest of the carnies had their slots to do whatever it was they did. The first act was Hilda, the stereotypical bearded lady. There was nothing spectacular about her besides her size and mannish demeanor, and all she really instilled in the crowd was disgust despite her gentle mien. Next came Pavri and Patil, twins with one shared body and two heads of flaxen and gossamer mane. Following them was Marty D the Monkey Boy, two years younger than me with a face covered in black fur and a white tail with a life of its own. After Marty was Blixa, the most talented eleven-foot magician I’d ever seen, and then Mademoiselle Marion followed - a beautiful woman whose body was spectacular down to her hips, where the whole shebang suddenly came to a smooth end, as if oblivion licked at her one dufflepuddin’ heel. It was then time for my act, followed by the grand finale when we all went out on stage together, Bellini closing the show with a clever riddle or rhyme using cursed things he called “The Words of Da.” He had learned the secret of using them safely, a trick I could never quite work out myself.

Of these things I will not speak, however. I will do as you bid me just as I begun to open my beak:

 “Don’t open that box, son.”

We were family and we all played our parts. I was the youngest, spending most of my days in solitude, but I could see what kind of people the carnies were. Hilda was practically normal aside from her facial hair and her unpleasant lack of hygiene, Pavri and Patil were very sweet girls if you looked past their deformity, Marty was loud but harmless, unashamed of his appearance like the others, Blixa was proud to be the tallest man in the world and was incredibly skilled in the magics, and Marion was the most beautiful, elegant woman I have ever laid my eyes on. Bellini distanced himself from the carnies; he wasn’t really a part of the group. He was merely our guide. Limping from town to town, all he contributed to the cirque was his unmistakable scent of beer on his breath and his addiction to nicotine, a cigarette wedged behind his ear everywhere he went. 

But one day it hit me. Right between the eyes much like it has you.

This man, this disfigured face with black eyes, a bad leg, beer breath and a cigarette behind his ear, was no stranger. (Did you see that coming? Because I certainly didn’t!) When the realization hit me, I was sitting at a table outside a tent with Marty the Monkey Boy and Blixa, discussing what we could do to improve our acts. I don’t know why it was that moment that let me know who he was; perhaps I had known all along and didn’t want to admit it to myself. Perhaps he knew, too. 
Marty and Blixa were oblivious to my sudden distress, talking amongst themselves as I crushed the Styrofoam cup that I clutched in my grasp. My breathing was heavy, my heart beating rapidly, flames in my eyes. I immediately jumped up—Blixa and Marty suddenly aware of my terror—and threw my chair across the property with a grunt of anger. As I stood there in a huff, Bellini himself came roaring out of a nearby tent, arms thrown up into the air. 
“What in God’s name are you doing, son?!” he called, brows furrowed. But then he knew. I stared into his cold black eyes, and he stared back at the fire inside of mine. Fury was pulsating within me, every molecule erupting to a boil. 
“So that’s how you got those burns,” I said through clenched teeth, smirking ever so slightly but just enough that he could notice. It was then that I began to laugh—I didn’t even know why. It was hilarious to me, hilarious that this man I thought to be dead for so many years had been standing right in front of me, guiding me and providing the home he’d once ripped from my grasp.
I grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto the table, pinning him down with my forearm. At this point, the entire carnival was surrounding me, completely unaware of what to do. Bellini was having trouble breathing, the weight of my body pushing my arm into his neck, but he managed to spit a few words at me.
“You did this to yourself, you know,” he wheezed, coughing in my face as he finished his words, the familiar scent of that devil’s gin engulfing me. My brows furrowed, confused by his words and angered by his confidence. Furious, I pulled a lighter from my pocket and held it in his face, causing him to cringe and squeeze his eyes shut, suddenly not so confident. Gasps of shock could be heard around us, but I didn’t care. This was the man who took my life away. He was to blame. 
“I’m sorry, is this making you uncomfortable?” I asked, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to his face, blackening a bit of his twisted skin.
“Stop, stop!” called a female voice, presumably Marion. The rest of them were silent, aside from a few gasps and whispers. They knew I was strong. They knew they couldn’t stop me if they tried. So they watched in horror as the fire in my eyes rose.
“This won’t save them,” Bellini said. “This won’t take back what you did.” I had no idea what he was talking about. I pushed the flame into his cheek as he screamed. Suddenly, a wave of strength ran through him and he threw his fists hard into my chest, thrusting me off the table and into the dirt. He stood over me, clutching his face and shaking.
“You’re the reason they’re dead!” I shouted, unable to pick myself up from the ground. I was panting heavily, my brows creased and my eyes wet. Bellini took a step closer and knelt down next to me, his black eyes glistening with sympathy.
“No,” he whispered in a disappointed tone. “You are.” 
I didn’t know what he was saying. I was confused. I was upset. I was angry. I wanted to pull myself up and send a fist straight through his skull, just like he’d done with my mother. But I couldn’t move. Instead, I rested in the dirt, breathing heavily, defeated. I could no longer live in denial.
Bellini didn’t want to hurt me. That’s why he took me into the carnival, to help me. I stared into his black eyes and I understood. He wasn’t the one who needed to be punished. I was. 

GROWL, GROWL URU, AND MAKE A MIGHTY Yawp!!

The carnival was silent. Each person held their breath in anticipation, afraid to make a sound. The air was cold, the wind still. I stood up.
Walking over to my station, I silently took the carton of gasoline I used for my acts and poured it onto myself. The carnies remained silent, but their faces expressed horror and understanding at once, tears welling in every orbit and every sphere. Bellini stood by the table, his head down and compassion in his eyes. He lowered his hooked nose and gave me a silent prayer of well-wishing.
The show must go on, so at 9:02 PM I became something else, I became the darkness and the light of the man who was still a pup. The Dragon died and fried and then he was reborn like a beacon, blazing the whole night through. I became the darkness and the stars, I became the Dark Dragon, URU. With mouth a ‘flame and blood a ‘fire, I let out the mightiest YAWP the whole motherflamin’ world had ever saw and tore the cover right off that fireball! 

Unspeakable mess now spoken, as was agreed.

Sitting down there at the bottom of the well, sitting and spinning on it, there was only one thing left to do, you see? I had to flipturn (hey!) and become the Holy Dragon, Uru, to climb back out. Wearing Despair and Hope on each wing, breathing cleansing DRAGONFIRE all the way from All-Hells to All-Heavens and back again. Eat, Live, Love and Chomp, Gorge, Heal...to Spew, Purge, Pray and finally this Dragon’s purified. AMEN.
Just one more thing to do, to keep that ball spinning and stay in the game winning, you know.  Gotta add a little to the pot to make sure the beat goes on and on and on, higher and higher, to that final bar in the sky (Don’t forget to take a step back this time!).

I think you know where this is going now...

I lit a necessary flame.