I emerged into the hectic heart of Toronto. It was a cold day, with winter about to make its annual appearance. Despite the chill, I walked towards the campus with a consistent gait.

That day was odd. I wasn't quite my usual self.

I felt okay during the lectures, still sulky, but I was able to pay some attention. I remember eating the lunch that Flare had prepared, feeling a little guilty that I hadn't helped her make it.

The afternoon was decent as well. Tuesday afternoons only had two classes. I remember that the database course went decently: Professor Naguin's murmuring was unusually palatable.

The last class of the day was software engineering.

I entered the lecture hall a bit ahead of time and hid in the far corner. I had no idea how I'd react when I heard his gruff voice again.

I waited for what felt like an eternity.

I remember checking my phone and seeing that the class should have started five minutes ago. The man was running late, causing my trepidation to bottle up. I was sweating at ten minutes and ready to explode at fifteen.

The rest of the class also seemed restless until the auditorium door burst open.

Heart thumping, I turned to the entrance.

It was not Professor Stearn but the faculty dean, Canmore. His features were tightened.

"What's going on?" a student called.

"Where's the professor?" said another.

Canmore ignored the questions. He marched to the lectern, tapped the mic, and spoke: "Professor Stearn has been hospitalized." The dean took a breath. "An incendiary device was planted in his personal vehicle."

Everybody was on their feet—the students in clamour and me in shock. Dozens of people swarmed the dean for answers while I fled in the commotion.

I remember one thought racing through my head as I sprinted home for the second time that week.

What did you do?

The apartment was dark when I returned. The living room was empty, and the only light was a flickering light from the bedroom.

I pushed open the door.

Flare was convulsing on the bed, fervently pleasuring herself by candlelight. She moaned and turned to me, eyes ablaze in red, cheeks just as red with heat.

"Orson..."

"I-I"

"Come."

"F-Flare?"

"Come."

"F-Flare did... What did yo—"

"Come!"

My words were completely gone. So too was my judgement and my mind and my resistance. I could only let her pull me in and mount me like a lioness does her prey.

Her skin was shiny, breasts and midriff coated in gasoline. The smell was obscene, drilling into my nose. The danger was even more so. One errant thrust into a candle, and we'd become that which we loved.

I remember being made to lie on my back. I remember staring up at the smile I always knew, at a body that I would soon come to know.

It was an unbearable warmth, growing as we pushed and pulled; rubbed and collapsed. We locked our flesh, sharing synchronized gasps of the chemical-filled air.

"Let's go," Flare whispered between waves of euphoria.

I was so overloaded that I couldn't quite understand.

"Let's go." She was right beside my ear.

"W-where?"

"To solve your problems." Her ruby eyes were millimetres away.

I realized it then.

Flare was too perfect, in the memories of my youth, through the turbulence of high school, in her current, flawless touch. She was my drug, my cherry-red ecstasy—and I was the hopeless addict who couldn't go a day without the needle's sting.

My lips were dry when I said it: "Let's go."

The greater half of the university campus was closed off. The incendiary device had ignited the professor's sedan as it had been driving down College Street. He had swerved into a crowd, causing mass panic and later causing much of the school to vacate.

In the dead of night, we were able to sneak right through the rings of police tape. The streets were deathly quiet as the year's first snowflakes began to fall. The school must have cut power to the area as the only light was the pale moonlight.

It was probably a cold night, but all I could remember was the heat. Flare must have been warm as well, as there was nothing beneath her trench coat that would flap in the wind.

It was so easy, following her into the campus. It was so easy, with no one stopping us even as we manhandled five full drums of gasoline across Kings' College Road.

The target was the Sandford Fleming Building, the source of my three years of misery. With a round extension adorned with pillars, the library resembled the south façade of the White House. And like the White House of days long past, the building would soon burn down.

It was so simple. We entered through one of the side doors. There were no alarms, no security or lights; the cameras might have been rolling, but those would soon be gone.

We emerged into the main foyer.

At some point, her coat had been lost. Then, Flare was on bare feet, creeping up the foyer steps fully nude. I followed her crimson, waving hair, heaving a drum across my shoulders.

I remember we started from the top.

The upper floor was mostly filled with various engineering reference books. We didn't spare them. We destroyed the shelves, navigating by flashlight and laying a deadly trail. When we arrived at the computer science texts at the back of the library, we were particularly generous.

I had come to despise the smell of books through years of reading too many. Now, we replaced the scent with petrol, so much that it dribbled over the edge of the concourse and down to the first floor.

We raided the offices next, trashing any room that was unlocked.

Stearn's office was the principal target. We busted open the door with a fire extinguisher. Once inside, everything was painted in hydrocarbons: the walls, the office chair, the hardwood flooring, and the desk—on top which we enjoyed ourselves.

I remember how damn good that felt.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"What's next?" Flare gasped, laying on the floor.

"Ground floor," I tasted the gasoline on my lips. I remember that I quite liked it. "The lounge, and the workstations."

Flare sighed.

"What, getting second thoughts?"

"No..." She made a sound as if tensing. Then, she exhaled: "I'm just thinking how much great this is."

"Ready then?"

Her voice filled with conviction. "I'm game if you are."

On the ground floor, we were a bit more playful.

We chased each other through the lower hallways like children. It was a game: I'd carry a drum of gasoline and chase after her perfect figure—all the while swamping the building in pools of gas.

I'd finally catch her, and we'd indulge each other on the nearest couch, repeating until we were down to the last drum. With it, I remember ripping through the library's thirty computer stations. I kicked monitors, smashed terminals, and saturated it all with petrol.

It was all a blur, a reverie that was too intense.

"Orson," Flare murmured.

Before I knew it, we were standing at the center of the concourse. Flare was standing before me, in a pillar of moonlight which streamed through a window. She appeared magical, shimmering in the gasoline's iridescence with her redness being the only other colour.

Flare flicked on the lighter. The wisp was nostalgic, blue at the base and orange near the apex.

Flare pressed closer, holding it dangerously close to my chest that was also coated in gasoline. Her free hand ran across around my side, and she shifted around me, completing a full circle.

The flame came to rest right beside my eye. Behind it were her eyes, as red at the flame's tip.

"You do it."

The lighter snapped off. Flare dropped it.

It fell and I scrambled to catch it, drawing Flare's laughter. I straighten up and looked her in the eye. "You sure?"

"Positive."

I remember that I crouched down with minimal hesitation. But when my thumb reached the spark wheel, I was overcome with unexpected ambivalence. "Is thi—"

Flare was suddenly crouched beside me. She said nothing.

Instead, she mouthed three words—the same three words I had mouthed to her all those years ago in the clearing.

I found myself back there, in those howling winter winds, on the night Flare had said she'd be leaving for this cursed city. We had stared at each other; we had made our tacit promises. This wasn't so different.

Only now, the library's concourse was the clearing, and the moonlight pierced through windows rather than trees.

I had lit a flame that night. I did it again.

The gasoline caught alight.

I ran for my life.

I ran and ran, heart pounding, lungs gasping, Flare skipping beside me. I dashed for the exit, racing the flames that I had birthed. In my ears, all I could hear was their roar—that, and Flare's neurotic laughter.

Despite the smoke, the heat, and the sound, my mind became crystal clear. I remembered something else about that night years ago.

Who do I want to be?

I had asked myself that question on that night. I had seen a crossroad; I had chosen the man I wanted to be.

I remembered the question that Professor Stearn had asked.

What are you passionate about?

I was passionate about her. There was nothing I loved more than the Flare of my memories: strong and thoughtful; bold and always loyal.

But what had I told her in the clearing? When my hands had been squeezing her shoulders?

Be true to yourself.

This wasn't the Flare I knew. Or maybe it was too much of the Flare I knew, her characteristics so exaggerated that it had been perverted. Bold to reckless; passionate to obsessive.

Whatever the verdict, it didn't really matter.

I sprinted ahead of her. I burst outside into the winter winds, spun on my toes, and thrust the door closed. I jammed my forearm between the handle and the frame, sealing it.

Through the glass, I saw Flare approach. She bounced off the door and disbelief filled her eyes. "Orson!"

I said nothing.

Flare banged on the glass; she kicked on the door. Neither budged. I didn't either.

A noticeable heat was building up. Flare turned around and noticed the fire, creeping forwards, blitzing along the gasoline-soaked carpets.

"Orson, let me out!" Her fist smashed repeatedly, smearing red across the window. She pulled back and charged the doorway.

The impact broke a bone somewhere and sent a shock down my body. Despite that, I held fast, not even relenting as the metal began to heat up and sear my flesh.

It would have been far worse on the other side.

"Open the door!"

"Let me out!"

"Orson!"

Flare shrieked her lungs out.

Then, something strange happened—the shouts twisted and merged and blurred. It became a rapid, almost rabid, gasping that was more joyful than agonizing, and more hysteric than joyful.

The flames flared.

A spark caught her skin, still slick with gasoline.

Flare had never seemed to mind the heat. That is until she became a fireball—her vibrant red hair became the reddest of reds; her sparkling eyes became the brightest of brights.

I held the door a moment longer, until the smoke and the heat and the pressure became too much.

She came bursting out, looking more like a dancing puppet than a person. She fell forward, crashed down the stairs, and collapsed, motionless and smouldering.

I didn't see anything after that.

I was also drenched in gasoline and her desperate escape had lit me ablaze. I had never thought that the flames could hurt so much as I rolled in the freshly fallen snow.

It was all over. I only recall limping through the streets as the fire spread to across the campus.

I later learnt that three dozen people were injured, with several of them dying. I had somehow made it to one of the school dormitories, mixed with the victims, and escaped suspicion.

My next clear memory was of clean sheets, on a clean bed, in a clean room.

They had taken me to the hospital trauma center, where I was treated for third degree-burns across most of my body. It took the surgeons three days to graft hundreds of skins pieces.

Even then, my right forearm, the one that had held the door, had been amputated from the elbow down. I had suffered nerve damage across most of my upper body, and my fingers now possessed an uncontrollable twitch.

I would never be the same.

I spent New Year's relearning how to move my body and was finally released from occupational therapy at the end of summer the next year.

After that, I went home and stayed in my room, suffering from chronic aches and neuropathic pains. The fires had taken my warmth and I lay in bed constantly shivering. If not for the warmth of my parents, I would have frozen over.

It was like that for three months.

Then, on a misty autumn morning, I got out of bed. I stumbled down the stairs on shaking legs.

"Orson!" My mother leapt from the kitchen table. She steadied me and her voice softened. "You shouldn't strain yourself."

"It's alright."

"Are you sure?"

I nodded.

She opened her mouth and closed it, ultimately saying nothing. She had seen it.

"I want to go on a walk."

"Yeah... that's." My mother swallowed. "That's good. That's really good."

"It is."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"I would. But I think it's something I should do alone."

"Alright."

My mother helped me dress. I had wallowed in bed for too long and still couldn't pull a proper shirt over my head. Together, I adorned a clean, collared dress shirt and my father's black overcoat.

"Be careful."

"I will."

I retrieved my cane—I had to use one to steady myself now—and left the house, the tip tapping against the soft earth of Canon Smith's roadside.

The destination was no more than a kilometre away, but it took me half an hour to get there. I retraced a path that had once been worn down, now lush with years of disuse.

The familiar babbling of Morson's Creek greeted me.

It was eerily similar to how it had been in bygone days. The creek widened at the same spot, the spot where I had first confessed; and there was the stump, on which she had shown me that bottle, that magical bottle.

The only difference was the overgrowth, and amongst it, a solemn gravestone.

There were signs of visitors, probably some Andelion kinsmen. I followed the footpath they had made and stopped a meter from the headstone's plaque.

In memory of a Flare —whose passion was only rivalled by her short-livedness.

I found the inscription quite appropriate. The only impropriety was the burial: Flare would have preferred cremation.

On my return trip, I was stopped by a car. It swerved in front of me and blared its horn. At first, I was confused. Then, I saw a mass of black in the bush, scampering away.

There must have been a bear.

The driver, an attractive woman in her forties, disembarked. She turned to me and gave a sigh of relief. "Wow, I had thought it might attack you."

I stared at her and she seemed quite familiar. "Mrs. Scout?"

"Orson?"

We spent several minutes catching up. Mrs. Scout was now the mother of three beautiful children and had become the sixth-grade teacher at Stonecrest. She seemed shocked by my disfigurement.

"It's alright, Mrs. Scout," I assured her.

"It's just so..."

"It was an accident. I'm over it."

She sighed. "I hope you can recover."

"I hope so too."

Scout understood to change the topic. "I still remember the paintings you made when you were at Stonecrest. Did you keep practicing?"

"No."

"Oh... I see. And what about Flare?" Scout gave a wink. "Did that go anywhere?"

"No."

She was quiet at that. "Well, that's too bad. I had always thought that you two were perfect."

I made no reaction.

Mrs. Scout understood to say no more. She got back into the car and rolled down the window. She gave a final question: "What are you planning on doing now?"

The autumn air was perfectly fresh as I inhaled. However, I noticed something else, or rather, the absence of something. There was no cigarette stench, not from Scout's person nor her vehicle.

I thought about her question.

What was I going to do now? What did I want to do? I thought back about the question Professor Stearn had asked me.

A dancer, a cinematographer, a chef, an artist or a writer?

I remembered the stories I had read during class and the resolution I had made. It felt so fleeting at this time, but...

"I think I'll take it slow for a year. Maybe try my hand at writing."

"Writing?"

"Yeah."

Scout bit her lip. "I think that's wonderful. You'll have to let me read your works."

I chuckled. "I doubt you'd like my writing."

"Pardon?" The joke seemed to surprise her.

"Ah, never mind."

Scout smiled, gave her farewells, and drove off.

I turned back to the brush, where the bear had been. I could sense that it was still there and... I knew it wouldn't attack.

I continued my homewards trudge and the morning felt a little warmer—not hot, but comfortable.