Many stories start with action, suspense, something that pulls you in. My story isn't like that. My story is mundane. I myself am mundane. There is nothing special about me, and yet this story is being made.

My childhood was what I consider to be normal. I had a normal amount of school homework, a normal alcoholic father, a normal loving mother. I had a normal bedroom and grew up in a normal house. I had a normal pet dog named Holly, and a normal hyperactive brother named Caleb.

Then I grew up. I realised how small my world was, how broken the land I walked on was. I began to see all the physical abuse I suffered from my father, all the mental abuse I suffered from my mother, and all the psychological abuse I suffered from my brother. I grew up. I moved into a college dorm and shared a room with one other. They were absent half the time, and I liked it that way.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I graduated college with a degree and started job-hunting right away. I soon got a job as a firefighter. I saved a lot of people, I put out a lot of fires, but I never got burnt once, and that is my greatest achievement in life.

I climbed the social ladder, reaching higher and higher job positions, using everything I had available, thinking that if I climbed high enough, I could escape. Escape from my father, my mother, my brother, my empty life… I thought I'd escape far enough and fast enough to outrun the fire that was lapping at my heels, threatening to burn me the second I let my guard down.

My life was normal, in the end; it was mundane. I don't regret anything, nor do I feel happy about anything. I believe the best thing I have achieved in life has stayed the same. I have outrun the flames, outlasted the fire.

And then I look down at myself, and realise how burnt I really am.