I stare into the incandescent flames of the gas burning stove, so familiar to me, and though a dream passing before my eyes, I think back to a time when I was young, newly adopted and still a stranger among the lives of the people who would raise me. I can imagine, I was only nine years of age, and Christmas had just passed. One of the few Christmas I had experienced thus far. I had received a few gifts, books, clothing, some toys, and one very nice easybake-oven. I had begged for one after seeing the commercials, and the idea of food preparation excited me. I liked cooking. But now that I had it, nobody would take the time to show me how to use it. I bothered my adoptive brother, father, and mother, until finally, just to shut me up, my adoptive father gave in. We mixed powders and water and more powders, put them in little metal baking pans, and through the light bulb heated oven. He became bored quickly, but I was enjoying myself immensely. Three little cakes later, fully iced and decorated, he unplugged the stove and told me to let it cool before putting it away. Once back in its box, my little oven sat in the closet for months. Late fall rolled around and of course, as with every year, it was downpouring. I stare out my window, imagining far off places, through the dark, rainy sky, playing with old plastic building blocks, a deck of cards and some books. I had built a little race track to push my toy car around on. I do this for a time, and soon find myself feeling under stimulated and the reaches of boredom creeping into my mind. I dig through my closet for something new to play with. Nothing catches my eye. I overlook the box in the back corner a few times. Then realizing that I haven't even used it in so long, I pull out my easy-bake oven. I set the box on the floor, lift the machine out, and too, place that on the floor. I grab a metal dish and pour a packet of brownie mix in and a little scoop of water from the bathroom sink. I am worried that I will be in trouble for using it, so I place the oven inside my closet atop a pile of clothing I had neglected to hang up. I plunged it in to the outlet just outside the closet door and waited a few minutes before pushing the pan into the oven with the provided pushing rod. I sit down on my bed and wait. I had not realized, being so young, the strong smell of baking sweets that would be emanating from the small machine. I opened a window, and turned on my ceiling fan, in hopes that nobody would notice. I was not so lucky. “What is that smell?” my adoptive mother asks, poking her head into my room. I lie blatantly, telling her I do not know. She looks around my room, sees nothing, and leaves. The smell is getting stronger. Smoke is coming out of from under the closet doors. I jump forward and rip the plug out of the wall, hoping it will cool off quickly. Again, I am not so lucky. As so as my had touched the plug, my adoptive father kicks in the door, and flings me out of the way. I hit my back on the wooden bed frame. It hurts terribly. I watch as he rips the closet doors open and pulls the oven out by the cord. The small space of the closet had amplified the heat, causing the clothing under the oven to begin to smoke and smolder, and the clothing I had actually hung up above the oven, had begun to do the same. The oven itself, drooping, like soft rubber, as my adoptive father held it up, so hot in fact, that it had begun to melt itself. His face contorted in rage, that which I had not seen yet, but would become all too familiar with in the future. He strides towards the door to the garage, swings it open, and in the manner one would swing a cat by its tail, he brought the present down onto the concrete floor with such force that there wasn't much left of that oven when he was done. Too bad he wasn't done with me. He was back in my room in an instant, where he picked me up from where he had left me, against the bed frame, roughly grabbing the front of my shirt. There was a look I only saw once, and hoped for the rest of my life id never see again. He was scared. Not frightened, but more scared in an angry kind of way. He shakes me, and screams, spittle landing on my face. I don't dare flinch. “When I was your age, I watched my entire home burn to the ground. My drunken father fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand, and almost killed all of us. I will not let a little faggot like you do the same to my home now!” He bellowed. “You’re going back to foster care tomorrow! We didn't even want you in the first place!” Now, my adoptive father was a very short man, but at ten years old, he towered over me, and to say the least, each of his arms were about as thick as my entire body. He was one tough son of a bitch. Still screaming, he shook and dragged me into the front hall, and with one easy toss, I sailed into the front door of the house, where the back of my head went right through the frosted, decorative double pane window. Good thing I went unconscious. I finally got lucky. I guess... He didn't speak to me again for a long time, but something had seemed to change in the both of them, like being cruel to someone helpless excited them, or gave them some kind of enjoyment. From then on, I was never treated the same. It was almost like I was some kind of monster they had to confront, and make a fool out of. Something nasty that needed to be sneered at.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

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I watch the water boil for the daily oatmeal, every pop and roll of water, reminding me of the first few years I lived in this complex. I mindlessly grab the oats from the cupboard above the stove, and measure out the required amount, deep in thought: it’s funny how water boils and bubbles just like human skin, and I am taken back to a real fire, with more disastrous consequences than I could have ever imagined.