Burning dead

My name is not important, neither is my gender or my hair color, so you can picture me however you want me to look. I won't judge, I couldn't care less what you think I look like. You can call me... Ash. Yeah, that is actually fitting.

I don't know much about how it all started, I was other wise... occupied but one thing I know is this: Fire is your friend.

Nothing beats torching a walker, crawler, runner, whatever you meet you must set it on fire. Fire will cook the viruses that cause the disease. Fire will also burn away the infected blood. Fire will ensure only ashes and burn bones are left. And it will die out when it is meant to die out.

I never put out fires. Never. Morally, I compare it to smothering a best friend, because that is what fire is to me now. It always was...

My first incident was when I was 6. Mother had left to work at the office and Father still had not returned from his job. I felt my curiosity come over me, so I hastily stacked several chairs one on top of the other until I could reach the top shelf inside the kitchen cabinet. Inside I saw a small box of matches. Greedily, I grabbed them all and hastily clambered down the rickety chairs.

I ran to the bathroom, where the smell would go unnoticed and lit the first match.

Have you ever payed close attention to a match on fire? Fire casts no shadow, if you hold a torch to a burning match you'll see the match's shadow mirror the shriveling of the actual stick, but no fire.

I watched as the mesmerizing flame consumed the stick, growing tantalizingly closer to my fingers. I felt the heat of the flame grow more intense and I felt sad as I was forced to throw the stub to the toilet. Quick as lightning, I pulled another out and struck it against the side of the box. It crackled into existence, red and yellow fighting for dominance and at the very bottom of the flame, a hint of blue. Once again, the stick shriveled up and the heat grow closer to my fingers, the smell of burning wood filling my nostrils and causing me to sneeze. The flame sputtered, but went back to normal. I drew it closer to my face and looked in the mirror. The tiny fire reflected in my pupils so it looked like it was inside me too.

I was too engrossed in the reflection to notice that the fire had gotten to my fingers. A sharp pain stabbed through my fire induced stupor but I was too oblivious to notice. I liked the idea of having fire inside of me. The flame grew hotter and at last, I gazed at my fingers in a daze. I'd dropped the match in the toilet bowl again, but my fingers were red and one was bleeding.

I felt no pain however, just the feeling that I'd finally found a real friend. To this day, fire hasn't let me down.

I know I seem insane to you, but sanity is relative to the perspective of the beholder. To me, it's perfectly normal to consider as a friend that which saves you. Fire has saved me more times than I can count, and I can count very far.

There are people out there that consider their guns, cars and pets their friends. So why should fire being my friend be any stranger? Sometimes people don't make sense and it is mainly one of the reasons that I didn't socialize very often at any point in my life. If I ever talked to anyone, it was because I wanted to inform them that I wished to be left alone.

Follow me, I need to show you something.