6 November 2012
The plastic burned beneath my fingers, bubbling acidly across the calloused expanse of my thumb. I watched, my fingers sending futile signals of pain to my brain, just watched as the pale pink began to drip and coat my fingers in boiling goo. Idly I noticed my thumb twitching without my direction as it blackened from the proximity. But still, I only watched.
I watched as that Barbie- the last remnants of my childhood, my innocence- was twisted and melted before my very eyes.
At last my fingers became numb to the crimson heat and the deformed and melted limb fell from to my floor. Yet the pain still raged and I realized I was still being burned by the boiling remains.
Somewhere I realized it hurt, so so badly as well, but somehow I couldn't draw my attention away from the similar-yet so different to my skin plastic bubbled and cooled.
When I finally could my detached observations slapped me back to reality and I screamed, cradling my blackened fingertips to my chest. I clambered to my feet and made my way to my bathroom, dumping icy water onto my fire-numbed hand and suddenly I realized how monumentally stupid I had been. How foolish to believe that childhood could be represented by a children's toy.
As I gently wrapped my blistered hand I smiled just a bit and realized that even so, it was okay. Because I had left my childhood behind, and I only had blistered fingers to show for it
Prose #2 (To Light A Fire) • Opuss № I