Death By Match

Death by Match



Fire, I’ve always been obsessed. Obsessed with smell of a freshly lit camp fire in May, the feeling of striking a match and watching the tip combust into a ball of fire flickering in the wind. The concept of fire was simply beyond me. All of its elegance and beauty left me awestruck. Even the idea of lighting a birthday candle was enough to send chills up my spine.
“Liam, Liam are you listening to me?” asked a too familiar voice that I had grown accustomed to over the past five weeks. I jolted back into reality and grunted preparing myself for what came next. The pain seeped back into my body, the searing agony that made it difficult to breathe much less talk to someone that I didn’t have any interested in seeing. I glanced down – Bandages. Crisp white wraps that covered my legs, my arms, my torso; I was a walking mummy. Something my twisted humor found almost funny seeing that I was now bed ridden.
“You’re in a lot of pain still aren’t you Liam?” The voice paused “Maybe I could get the nurse to up the dosage of your Morphine, How are you feeling other then the pain?” That’s all that people talked about with me; and their constant questions came in twos. First they would ask if I was in any pain, When I wouldn’t respond they would ask me if I was feeling any better today then yesterday. I would look them in the eyes and then look away as if to tell them to fuck off. They never really seemed to get the message; they just constantly nagged and nagged.
The only thing that was worse then the endless nagging was the visitor’s bringing gifts. They would come in bearing presents I couldn’t even open with my own two hands. Then they would have the audacity to tell me I was looking so much better, that I looked “really good” What the fuck. I was ugly. I am ugly. There is absolutely nothing good looking about a person with second and third degree burns over 70% of their body. My skin was blackened, falling off, fried to a crisp. There was nothing good about not being able to bathe yourself, nothing was okay with not being able to use the bathroom and instead going into a chord that led to a slowly filling plastic bag. I wasn’t looking good I looked dead.
On Tuesday’s I met with Doctor Lorinch, who preferred I call her Sarah. Sarah was hot, honestly. She was short with brown shoulder length wavy hair and always carried two pens hooked to her Hospital Badge. I would guess that she was somewhere around the age of 26. Damn if only I where older I would think to myself. Sarah was the only person I liked in the hospital. She wasn’t afraid of me, of what I did to myself. Granted I would never talk to her about anything important she was still pretty cool. After my morning bandage change I would be carted into her office where she would pour a cup of coffee and lean against the corner of her desk and talk to me about anything. Today was different; instead of her normal talkative self she sat at her desk and stared at me. I could tell she was afraid of me. Afraid of talking to me as if I would shun her like I did to the rest of the people working in the hospital. She took a long sip of her piping hot coffee before opening her mouth to speak.
“I have to ask you something important today” She started slowly, obviously testing the waters. I nodded, “alright, what?” I said bluntly.
“Why?"
I stopped. I looked her straight in the eye thinking she wasn’t seriously asking me that question. Aren’t doctors suppose to wait until I’m out of the hospital before they asked me why I got there? I had overheard the doctors talking about my suicide attempt last week. It wasn’t a suicide attempt. I was curious, curious about death but even more so about the fire. I wanted to know what it felt like to be completely engulfed in flames. They would never understand, there wasn’t even a point to telling them that it wasn’t a suicide attempt and at this point in the state I was in I secretly wish it was a suicide attempt, and I wish it had been successful.
I closed my eyes and the memories flooded my mind like the water did after the levees broke in New Orleans. I was in my room, wearing my favourite red v-neck and black skinny jeans followed by a pair of beat up grey converses. Red was my favourite colour at the time, it reminded me the most of fire, and I felt the shirt was only fitting for a situation like this. I opened my black leather journal; I had been planning this night for such a log time. I looked to the left observing my bed and the items that lay on top. I walked over checking for the filth time to make sure I had everything that I needed. My eyes scanned over towels, a fire extinguisher, lighter, Zippo, matches (you can never be too prepared), and last but not least my filled can of gasoline. I let out a sigh of relief and returned to my journal.

8:45pm September 22
I’ve been thinking a lot about today and its finally here.
In 15 minute I will be in my bathroom to carry out something
I’ve only been dreaming of I can’t wait for the fire, to see it on
my legs, my arms, my torso. This seems almost too good to be
true. Well its time to start to set up in my bathroom. Ill report after
I’m successful.

- Liam

I closed the journal and hid it away under my mattress. I then started gathering supplies and made my way into the bathroom. I slipped on my new white bathrobe and flung open the shower curtain. I checked my watch, 8:58. I didn’t have much time before my mother got home. I uncapped my tank of gasoline and the thick vapor of oil coated my nostrils and I slowly started coving myself in it. I was dousing myself in actual gasoline. When the tank was empty I tossed it aside and stepped in my shower. I had decided on using matches with the idea that If a match explodes with fire when its lit then maybe I would to.
I took a deep breath and lit the match.

Regret, as the pain of the fire spread over my entire body.

Life was leaving me.

I was falling; this wasn’t what was supposed to have happened. I wasn’t supposed to
regret this. I wasn’t supposed to be falling; I was supposed to extinguish myself. I was getting tired and I was slipping away.
I opened my eyes; Sarah was sitting there staring at me, looking concerned. In this moment I wanted nothing more then to take it all back. I was alive, but I looked dead. I looked at the sign on Sarah’s desk. “ Sarah Lorinch, Psychologist”, followed but the words “Intensive Burn Unit”.
“I want to go back to my room,” I said under my breath. When she wouldn’t let me I sat and started to cry. I never cry in front of people but I was tired and I was in pain. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be this living mummy no matter how funny it may have been. “Liam?” Sarah asked quietly. I looked up at her before answering the question that she wanted to know the answer to desperately. I took a breath before uttering the words I never thought where possible.
“Suicide attempt”.