Fire had always been a fascination since you were a kid - the way it danced and blurred lines of sight and safety. It was perfect, a way of cleansing, and cleaning, and clearing. The ash and embers it left behind - a source of warmth even in a dangerously cold night. Fire was gorgeous. One might think that such a sequence of thoughts would lead to arson, but that was so...petty. Fire deserved more than buildings and forests as its sustanance.

Still, it was fun to play with them - burning them blue and green, making them flash pink or red. And the marks they'd make? Oh so gorgeous. The grey of a white phosphorous burn, or the pink from lit copper marring your skin? Even the deep numbing sensation of a 3rd degree burn. God it was pretty. Drawing doodles with a burning needle-tip or dripping melting wax painted such a nice picture. Did others feel that way?

No.