The Concept of Burning Alive
Kaylie Mancino
Kaylie Mancino
When we were six, we watched a house go up in flames.
We stood at the edge of the concrete, peering through lenses made from our hands, afraid to witness the
destruction of wood and smoke.
Our moms had to explain that, once something catches fire, it cannot be left unmarred.
With that knowledge, we held on tightly to each other and drifted off to sleep.
The concept of burning alive never scared me as much as it should have, because I thought we’d burn
together.
When we were fifteen, I discovered that I’d burn alone.
The heat was gradual; it stayed with me from hospital room to hospital room, the smell of smoke
lingering in my nostrils.
I think it was trying to leave you a trail to follow, one that led to where I sat, waiting for someone to find
me.
I think I was hidden from view.
My psychiatrist had to explain that wildfires sometimes spread without cause, that there is nothing that
can be done to prevent trees from falling.
With that knowledge, I grasped tightly onto my elementary school yearbook, drifting off to sleep with the
loneliness that burrowed itself inside my chest.
When we were sixteen, the heat engulfed me on the bathroom floor, setting my skin ablaze with the
memory of us watching a house go up in flames.
Maybe you were tired of the time it took to build a brand new one from the ground up.
Maybe you just couldn’t witness another tragedy.
No one was there to explain to me that some matches are shipped out defective, that nothing works the
way it’s supposed to.
Without that knowledge, I clutched tightly onto the bottle of pills in my hand, drifting off to sleep with the
thought of that house and everything that burned inside of it.
Now we’re eighteen, and we watch our friend’s casket sink into the ground.
We stand at the edge of the grass, nothing obscuring our vision besides the sheen layer of shared tears of
grief and pain and flames.
Then you pull me into an embrace that's riddled with overdue apologies and regrets and suddenly, I feel
six years old again.
But it’s been twelve years, and we now know that we exist amidst house fires and devastation and heat.
We now know that life is as fleeting as a flame atop a candle wick, that life grows fainter with each
passing minute.
To you, I explain that the family that lived in the house we watched go up in flames walked away from
the fire with nothing but each other and the clothes on their backs.
To you, I explain that they built a new house right on top of where the old one stood.
To you, I explain that the things we lost in our burned-down homes will soon turn to ash and carry
themselves somewhere else, far away from where we stand on the grass in front of our friend’s sunken
casket.
We know there will always be parts of us buried beneath the rubble; we know there will always be parts
of us waiting to be found.
With that knowledge, we hold on tightly to each other and drift off to sleep.
We stood at the edge of the concrete, peering through lenses made from our hands, afraid to witness the
destruction of wood and smoke.
Our moms had to explain that, once something catches fire, it cannot be left unmarred.
With that knowledge, we held on tightly to each other and drifted off to sleep.
The concept of burning alive never scared me as much as it should have, because I thought we’d burn
together.
When we were fifteen, I discovered that I’d burn alone.
The heat was gradual; it stayed with me from hospital room to hospital room, the smell of smoke
lingering in my nostrils.
I think it was trying to leave you a trail to follow, one that led to where I sat, waiting for someone to find
me.
I think I was hidden from view.
My psychiatrist had to explain that wildfires sometimes spread without cause, that there is nothing that
can be done to prevent trees from falling.
With that knowledge, I grasped tightly onto my elementary school yearbook, drifting off to sleep with the
loneliness that burrowed itself inside my chest.
When we were sixteen, the heat engulfed me on the bathroom floor, setting my skin ablaze with the
memory of us watching a house go up in flames.
Maybe you were tired of the time it took to build a brand new one from the ground up.
Maybe you just couldn’t witness another tragedy.
No one was there to explain to me that some matches are shipped out defective, that nothing works the
way it’s supposed to.
Without that knowledge, I clutched tightly onto the bottle of pills in my hand, drifting off to sleep with the
thought of that house and everything that burned inside of it.
Now we’re eighteen, and we watch our friend’s casket sink into the ground.
We stand at the edge of the grass, nothing obscuring our vision besides the sheen layer of shared tears of
grief and pain and flames.
Then you pull me into an embrace that's riddled with overdue apologies and regrets and suddenly, I feel
six years old again.
But it’s been twelve years, and we now know that we exist amidst house fires and devastation and heat.
We now know that life is as fleeting as a flame atop a candle wick, that life grows fainter with each
passing minute.
To you, I explain that the family that lived in the house we watched go up in flames walked away from
the fire with nothing but each other and the clothes on their backs.
To you, I explain that they built a new house right on top of where the old one stood.
To you, I explain that the things we lost in our burned-down homes will soon turn to ash and carry
themselves somewhere else, far away from where we stand on the grass in front of our friend’s sunken
casket.
We know there will always be parts of us buried beneath the rubble; we know there will always be parts
of us waiting to be found.
With that knowledge, we hold on tightly to each other and drift off to sleep.
//
Kaylie Mancino is an eighteen year old creative writing major from Long Island, New York. She loves tweeting about fictional lesbians and her dogs.
Kaylie Mancino is an eighteen year old creative writing major from Long Island, New York. She loves tweeting about fictional lesbians and her dogs.