Fire and Phobia

I Won't Go Down By Myself

Please understand that I have never been-- and will never be-- just like anyone else.

I was only eleven when it was discovered there was something wrong with me. I didn't know what exactly was wrong and neither did my parents, but it was clear that everything in my brain didn't add up. I was quickly put into therapy after the incident at my birthday party and it was written off as some honest mistake-- I just told it like it was, I didn't know what to do so I just watched the table burn. Nobody could point out exactly what happened or why which made it very difficult to figure things out. But after a while, we stopped talking about it as if it was just something that happened in the past and was inconsequential.

I did, however, start to become bitter at my parents for putting me through all of this therapy for what I thought was nothing. As I grew up to the age of maybe 13 or 14, I started a whole stage of pushback against the system that they upheld. And while I don't like to call it my rebellious phase, it most certainly was. I began to distance myself from my family and start hanging around people I knew they wouldn't like-- the punk crowd. The night before my first day of 8th grade, I cut my own hair so that it swooshed over my eye (mind you, it looked like a pretty decent job despite the fact that I had cut it myself). My mother inevitably pretended she was going to have a heart attack when she saw what I was doing.

I had a crowd now, I had been adopted into the punkie group by none other than Billie Joe Armstrong himself. It was a rough few days getting used to the looks people gave us, but after a while, I couldn't even be bothered to look at the kids who looked down on us. It wasn't worth my valuable time that I could spend brooding or thrashing or writing on the bathroom walls. If they didn't want to understand me, I wouldn't bother to be understandable. 

Around the time I moved up to high school was when I really started to develop thoughts I wouldn't normally have. I thought about my life and what it meant, how much would things change if I changed? I thought about math and science and why things weren't adding up. I thought about how I felt a lot, I wanted to do things that weren't characteristic of me. It was either an overwhelming urge to stay home and isolate myself or a crazed gut feeling that the void could be filled with girls and parties. There was no in-between. I started thinking about fire again, mostly after Tre offered me a joint; I had never smoked before, but Tre and Billie Joe both did, as well as Bert and Jimmy and some of the other punkies.

Punks were known potheads-- and who was I to say no to giving the in-crowd another reason to look at me funny? So I took it. The fumes filled me and I coughed and dropped the joint on the ground. Billie Joe laughed and said that was Jimmy's first reaction, too. I didn't feel like as much of a loser after that. 

Throughout high school, I developed depression and a mild form of what Billie Joe called fire frenzy. I'd always have a lighter in my hand. Whenever I'd flip it open, it felt like I was in another world. Time was slower when I watched the flame sway in my hand. My friends and I'd skip class to go into the bathrooms and smoke; I'd always laugh a bit and light something on fire. It started with toilet paper. I'd take a square or two and light the corner, then I'd hold it until it got too close to my hand. I would throw it in the toilet afterward and go back to what I was doing before.

It developed into something much bigger than I hoped it would at first. I began to use more toilet paper, then use paper towels and put them in the sink and watch them burn. Having that power in the palm of my hand, in a tiny red container, that was a power trip that became a stumbling block. Bert laughed over his joint while sitting on the counter one day during a 5th-period smoke break. He said, only half-jokingly, that I shout light a paper towel machine on fire or something. I laughed as well, but Bille Joe looked at me expectantly-- it was as if he wanted to see if I'd really do it. A test.

I couldn't forget what was running through my head when I made the decision to do something with the lighter: I had to impress Billie Joe. I smirked and my mind was made up as I mumbled a little absent, 'Here, watch.' I hit the top of the paper towel dispenser so roughly that it shocked Jimmy and Bert. I grabbed the end of the roll and pulled just as roughly, taking almost all of the paper that was on the roll. I decided that was good enough before I ripped it off and scrunched it up slightly (but only so I could fit the mass of paper in one hand). There was an intake of breath when I flicked on the lighter and lit the corner. 

The fire spread more quickly throughout the dry and dense paper as I threw it into the trash can by the sink. Bert hopped off of the counter and came rushing over next to the rest of our crowd as we huddled over the trashcan. The flame just started to die out and there was a collective groan before something cold was pressed into my hand. I looked down at the little bottle of hold-down-the-top Axe cologne. It was like a match (no pun intended) made in heaven and I almost giggled with excitement.

I felt drunk with power when I flicked on the lighter again and told everyone to stand by the door. They all did. I took in a breath and aimed the line of fire into the trash can, pressing down the top of the Axe can. Like a makeshift flamethrower, fire sprayed into the bin filled with paper and various plastics. Hot air hit my face from the pure backfire of it and I almost cried out with excitement. I ran toward the door where everyone was waiting and laughed as I told them to flee the scene of the crime.  

It was a day later when I was actually caught. Nobody else was ratted out because I was the one who started the fire. It was Bert, obviously, the more I thought about it. He didn't even like me, why wouldn't he call me out for his reward? When I was leaving the next day,  I slung my backpack over my shoulder and pushed Bert against the locker before spitting right across his face. Billie Joe yelled something, but I was seething and I couldn't hear it. I called Bert a slimy rat and let him go, stomping off angrily to the office, where I was made to sign out and go home. To hell with Social Sciences anyway, and to hell with all the good-for-nothing snakes I called my friends.

I don't even think my mom knew what to say when I got into the car. They told her that her son, at only 15, set fire to something which belonged to the school. Her little Frankie set fire to a school bathroom and ran away. I don't know if she was surprised, but to this day, I think she'd seen it coming since I was 11. She asked what I was thinking, why I would do something so stupid, and I just shrugged tiredly. I didn't want to fight, I didn't want to answer questions, I wanted to go home and cry because of how used I felt. I didn't have any friends, I had a few nice kids who decided to keep me around for a joint and a good time when they weren't busy in their 5th hour. 

I didn't talk to Billie Joe for two weeks after that-- and even then, I felt something missing. I hurt in my chest when I saw him pass me in the hall on a bad day. He'd high-five me if he was in the mood, say hi and keep walking. We still smoked during the 5th hour, but that's almost all we did. I ached to be close with Billie Joe again, and in my wiser years, knowing what I know now, I really do believe that Billie Joe Armstrong was my first heartbreak.

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