Page 75 of Braving the Valley

I was just a boy enchanted by the liquid light.

Much later, the compulsion developed into something more, a safety blanket that hid me away from more than just the antipathy of my father, but also protected me from the noise that was always present between my ears and the bad thoughts that murmured I wasn't good enough for this world. Over time, the draw to the flame grew into something even more, and I realized I needed more than warm willing pussy to satiate my needs. Sex was boring without the fire, and no matter how much I tried I always came back to the flame, feeding the compulsion before I was finally able to come.

Sex wasn't boring with her, though, even when I didn't grab the lighter, roll the wheel, and press the button. It was a beautiful, tortuous mania that nearly sent me over the edge before we had even begun. I didn't have to imagine the flames licking her flesh to get my cock in the game. I stared at her when she came undone, and it was enough, more than enough, to explode inside of her.

Watching her beneath that ceiling of mirrors, her gaze hooded, her body contorted as she accepted what I gave her and took even more, it was pure bliss.

It's not normal. Pussy shouldn't be that good. I'm like an addict when it comes to her, shaking and sweating before my next hit when I can bury to the hilt inside of her and feel her perfect cunt clench around me like a glove.

I don't think about them again after I fuck them either. One and done isn't a motto for me. I'm not that kind of guy, and there are only so many options in a place like this. I'm more like one and move on. I do what I have to, fire play, branding, flash paper, and more, to fill whatever hole with my cum, and I don't think of them again—well, not until they come back and ask for more.

Yet I can't stop thinking abouther, my firefly, who called my name like I was her lord when she came, spilling a hundred perfect reflections across the mirrors above us. I can't move on from her, and that has never happened, except once before with the girl who craved the burn as much as I do.

Aisling, who cooked herself to a crisp while I shouted at her to stop.

For months, I never wanted to come back to this place. It reminded me too much of her and her betrayal, yet I'm drawn here again, to this hideaway hole in the tunnels beneath the Asylum. They boarded it up after she barbequed herself, but they'd need to fill the entire thing with concrete to keep me out.

There's a pile of ashes stretching across the stone floor in this dark tunnel. The flashlight from my phone doesn't provide much light, unlike that night, when the fire burnt brilliantly against the dark. She started with paper and then added rags and bits of pieces of wood until she created her own miniature fire in here.

I told her to stop adding shit or she was going to suffocate us to death. Aisling never did know when to stop, and more often than not, I had to hit the brakes on her off-the-rails plans before she killed both of us. I remember her reaching into her backpack, smiling at me as she laughed. She hid it behind her back before I could spot what it was, and she made me ask nicely before she showed me. She pulled the aerosol can from behind her and waggled her eyebrows at me in the challenge.

Fuck, I had thought when I saw it,not this again.

She always did try to add the next thing, but she was careless, stupid even, and didn't understand incendiaries, not like I did at least. She didn't care either. She had one Neanderthal directive.

Big boom, pretty fire.

"Don't do it," I had told her, panic slipping between the words.

I liked the crackle of the flames and the roaring heat as much as she did, but I knew better. That shit could kill us when it blew. She should've known better, but Aisling was never good at learning her lesson. The gnarled flesh on her right forearm, stretching to the elbow, proved that.

She had a dangerous compulsion, but I was smart about it. I always reeled her back in, or I tried to, at least.

In response to my warning, she stuck her tongue out at me.

"It's empty, Gabriel." She rolled her hazel eyes. "Unwad your panties, sir."

She laughed, throwing her head back like what she said was hilarious. It wasn't. And I didn't laugh.

I hated when she got this way. I made light of the compulsion. It made it seem something it wasn't: fun and carefree. I didn't understand then, and I still don't now. The calling has never been blithe for me. It's a necessity, like air to breathe or water to drink. It demands respect.

"Don't throw that shit in there," I told her, shaking my head. "You'll fucking kill us both."

For some reason, she thought my words made it even funnier. I wanted to strangle her for it. She disrespected the one thing I cared about more than anything, the one thing that burned all the bad shit away when no one else protected me.

"Aisling," I growled, the flames in front of her casting orange and yellow shadows up the walls.

"Oh my God," she crooned, dancing around the fire. "Did I scare the big bad Gabriel? Is the wittle boy afwaid?"

I would have strangled her had she not been holding enough compressed propane and butane to blow us to smithereens. She laughed.

"I'm not scared," I told her, taking a step forward. She did a little twirl and nearly fell into the fucking fire. "I'm being smart. Don't do it, Aisling!"

She grinned, the light of the fire reflecting off the white glint of her teeth and her freckleless cheeks. She always wanted to go bigger without regard for the consequences.

It was too much, and I knew it. The canister would explode and maim both of us. She probably wanted to perform her party trick, like she always did, where she ran from one side of the fire toward me, killing off the lingering flames as she laughed. Only she never got the chance to run through the flames that day, and she didn't come out the other side unscathed.

She was on one side of the fire she had started, and I was on the opposite side when she pretended to toss the can before catching it out of the air.

---