#ms;p

"It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history."

-- Rad Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

As Malachi yanked the sweater over his head, the fuzzy blue wool snagged against the sparse, wiry stubble on his face. He had always wanted to grow a beard, a natural mask to hide behind, but his pale and youthful face remained relatively smooth. He hadn't shaved in over a week, and all he had to show for his patience were a couple of prickly, dark auburn hairs on his chin. 

The oscillating fan pivoted toward him, ruffling the hairs on his bare arms. He felt naked without sleeves to protect his arms, but the steamy atmosphere of New Orleans rendered his comforting sweaters unbearable. 

It wasn't modesty or shame that made him despise stepping into the world without his arms covered, though guilt and regret overwhelmed his conscience whenever he caught sight of the scars--wrinkled, pinkish-white tracks that engulfed the flesh between the shoulder and thumb of his right arm, a hideous tattoo inked by undulating flames. 

He kept it covered to avoid the questions. Most people politely ignored them, but there was always one person, one nosy idiot who couldn't mind his or her own business, who would ask what happened. Their tone was always innocent and inquisitive, their eyes already glassy with sympathy, and he would bluntly tell them the truth because lying was an unfathomable concept to him. 

The fire had been an accident, a moment of inner anguish that somehow escaped him, projecting out of the fantasy of his mind and into reality. He no longer remembered what his mother had said to hurt his feelings that night. Probably some offhand, drunken remark she'd made a thousand times before, but that night he couldn't take it. He had only meant to frighten her, to reflect some of the emotional pain back onto her. 

The farmhouse was well over a hundred years old with most of its original thin, untreated wooden walls. It took less that five minutes for the fire to gut the kitchen, then it ate its way through the ceiling and into his younger sister's bedroom. He never heard her scream. Medical examiners said she was dead from smoke inhalation before the fire reached her body, and that is what he told himself so he could sleep at night. 

His mother's voice caught his ear as he crawled down the hall toward the back door. She was barely audible over the incendiary roar, but he scrambled toward, through the piles of soot on the living room floor. She was curled in a ball behind the couch, her shiny purple nightgown stretched over both knees.

The flames surrounded her, surging closer as he called to her. There was no way to reach her except through the flames, and, in a moment of frenzied panic, he thrust his arm into the fire, his fingers brushing her shoulder. The pain was minimal, though he could smell his own searing flesh. Instead of taking his hand, she recoiled, letting out a disgusted shout, and rolled away from him.

"Leave me here. I'd rather die with her than be alive with you."

Malachi slipped a thin navy cardigan off its hanger and trust his scarred arm into the sleeve. He didn't feel like talking about it today. The heat would be more pleasant to endure. 

A low, bluesy melody trickled into his room. It sounded familiar, an old rock song his dad had listened to, back when he was party of the family, before leaving his wife with two kids and a mortgaged farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. 

The hallway was quiet, an unusual occurrence. The girls were always bustling and giggling into one another's rooms, but he saw no one as he followed the music down the hall to a closed door on the right. He gave it a couple of feeble knocks, but the music was too loud for a knock of any decibel to register inside.