The Fire's Touch

The horrible part is I would still go in to work today, if I had a job.

I’ve lost track of the hits I took during commercial breaks of mindless late night and pre-morning TV. At least twelve, I’d say. Maybe more like twenty.

If I went to the hospital, right now, the doctor’s voice would sound human. It might fake shock and pity at the walking petri dish that I’ve turned myself into, but, inside, the little cogs would be whirring, calmly solving the problem of another stupid, worthless human.

I don’t think I’m going to die. The drug PSA’s say I should’ve died the first time I stoked the flame, but those tin cans will never stop underestimating the human body’s ability to resist self-attack.

And, obviously, they don’t have the faintest glimmer of an understanding of why someone like me would choose the flame over a paycheck. Lives depend on my ability to synchronize actions of the building team, and the flame destroys my ability to do that. Fired for being fired. Ha.

But if I was ever going to feel bad for a bot, it would be because they could never even come close to understanding what it’s like to be on the flame. It burns everything bad right out of you. Venom and poison and anger and disappointment all go up in smoke and I can lie here, feeling it float through my skin and leave me clean.

I’ve taken enough hits to feel the fire wrapped in and around my entire body. I’m collapsed on my couch, too burnt out to feel any emotion toward the bot that’s out there somewhere, doing my job.

I doubt I could open my front door on the first try, but it doesn’t matter: if I had a job, I would still go to work today.