The Firefighter

I had been in love with firefighters since I was in kindergarten. It was the first time I had been rescued from a house fire. Since then, I have been rescued eight more times (but who was really counting?) Not every fire had been my fault, but I moved often enough no one in an authority position suspected me. I couldn’t help my obsession. Or could you call them obsessions? I loved firefighters and I loved fire. I loved candles, bonfires and I only lived in houses and apartments with fireplaces. 

I hadn’t had regular contact with my family in years and the only form of communication they had was my cell phone number. I was confident they still thought I lived in Austin and taught sixth grade science. In reality, I had left that job three years ago and moved to Portland, Oregon where I could the winters came earlier and stayed longer. Which for me meant, more time for fire. My parents had taken me to several therapists when I was first rescued from the house fire that had almost killed my entire family, but even then, I knew I would never get over either one of my first loves. And no amount of talking about the trauma of the fire would ever allow me to let go. I hadn’t been expecting the journalist to find me. And to remember he had already interviewed me about being a fire survivor. His house had to burn next.