Flirting with Fire

When you're little, life is like a comic book. There are good guys, and there are bad guys. The difference clear and definite. The villains threaten to destroy everything good, and the heroes prevent them, saving the day, always.
But who are these daily super natural? What is a child's definition of the real life villain? The real life hero?

Villain: Someone who's mean to them at the playground. A bully. A bad person.

Hero: Their parents. Their family. Their teachers. Their role models.

Somehow, as you get older, saving the day isn't so simple. The heroes are flawed and the villains sympathetic. The line which was once clear and definite is now blurry and smudged.
Nothing is the way it used to be. The innocence, the childhood naiveness, is lost. Everything you knew is thrown into question. Are there really any good guys in the world?
It's that epiphany moment where you realize that your parents aren't perfect, that your role model was never really as great as you imagined. It's easy to loose faith. You forget why you loved them in the first place.
I thought I was too old for such disappointments, but apparently, you're never too old. I guess part of you is always that child, looking for the good in everyone, forgetting the flaws.
Reality is harsh, it hit me like a punch to the stomach, and winded me. The information didn't process properly, I thought I was hearing things, that I'd somehow misinterpreted what she'd said.
But I hadn't. In truth, I knew I hadn't. At least if she hadn't said anything afterwards I could have lied to myself. I could have pretended. But she had to protect me. What she didn't realize was that by trying to protect me, she'd hurt me instead.
I'd never had a real role model before. Not a live one at least.
Amelia Earheart was my first, and she was dead. And she was too famous to come and haunt me.
My second was my aunt. Again, dead way before I knew her. After my grandfather died, she became to painful to think about.
This was my third role model, and she was different than the ones before her. And not just because she was actually alive. It was because I didn't realize that she was my role model at all. I was blinded in a trance.
Like a puppet, or in her words, a minon. I was her minon, her puppet. I followed her everywhere. I copied her behavior, looked to her for help. I wanted her approval, I was desperate for it. I wanted to one day BE HER.
I didn't expect her to let me down.

"Dammit, how do you work these things! I can't make it light," she said, looking up to the girl who'd given the lighter to her. There was a moment of silent stares, so quick and nonchalant I almost didn't notice. But there was an exchange. I thought nothing of it. "Usually when I do it, someone lights it for me!" She said, her frustration growing. I furrowed my brow, my head fuzzy. What did she just say? I wasn't comprehending.
Seeing the faces of others around her, she spoke, suddenly defensive. "You didn't hear that! She said, looking to each of us, calling us by name. I couldn't believe it, she smoked! Smoked what? I wondered, worried. She said my name last, serious worry on her voice as her eyes tried to meet mine. I looked down and mumbled under my breathe. "I kinda just did," I said, barely audible. Although just in front of me, she didn't reply, for at that moment, her lighter finally lite. The excitement on her face was like none I'd ever seen.
As wrong as it was, I wanted to understand it.
They wouldn't let me, none of them would. Being the youngest is sometimes a drag. I wanted the experience, that brilliant gleam in my eyes, the light of the fire.
When no one was looking, I grabbed the lighter.
No one ever teaches you the true dangers of fire.
Beyond its destructive qualities, its pain, its harm, there's something worse:
It's addiction.
Fire is beautiful, mesmerising, indescribable.
Fire is dangerous in the hands of any one, but in the hands of teenagers, its toxic.
It frightened me. Not the fire, the fire was alluring in my mind. I never played it safe. No, it was the joy that the fire brought which frightened me. The pure delight of being able to set things on fire which worried me.
I wanted that experience, despite how wrong I knew it was.
But the lighter was child proof, I'll give it that much. I couldn't get the stupid thing to work.
Putting it down before anyone noticed, I watched others instead.
I wanted to ask, but I knew the answer I'd get.
I was just a freshman. I knew too much as it was.
I made a mental note to play with my father's lighter the next I was home alone.

That was my first time flirting with fire. Whether it would be the last, about that, I was still unsure.