He Saved Me From The Fire
I spent years wondering why he never seemed to care enough to maintain the fickle flames of his family fire. He said it didn’t matter if he chopped the wood to feed the flames. He’d refuse to stoke the coals, even if the warmth was fading like the winter sun; he’d rather avoid being near the hearth at all.
I tried to be the scorching summer sun; I craved to be that saving breath for the embers before they died away. I put my soul into lifting the ax, into breaking down the fallen trees to transform them to heat. My body soon became coated in perspiration and dirt; my hands covered in calluses. He sat and watched from the porch, as if he knew my efforts would prove futile and I’d soon enough let the fire die.
Yet, even with his avoidance and insistence, we’d survive the winter without it, I continued to throw my back into it with gusto, certain my heart was right. As the leaves began to fall and the air began to provide a chilling caress, I decided it was time. Desperation drove me to action, instinctively cramming the lumber into the hearth. I grabbed him by the hand, coaxing him back inside from his rocking chair. The closer I brought him to the dazzling glow of the fireplace, the more he fought to resist me. I felt a tugging at my heart to choose between my lover and the glorious fire I’d tried to build for him.
I never realized that I wouldn’t be able to withstand the heat; I never knew that I’d burn like a witch at the stake just for my simple desire to keep the fire going. The snow began to fall, and though I stood nearly immersed inside the flames, I felt my heart grow cold and turn to stone. The sea of flames began to take hold of me, searing my skin and destroying my fragile soul. I found myself melting, drowning in the blaze that I’d created.
He’d tried to warn me and protect me from the inferno. He knew the pain of the scalding heat, the brimstone that could never be tamed. As I burned, I finally understood why he’d turned his back on that hearth so long ago, even in the dead of winter. Eventually, he knew the snow and ice would melt, that spring would come again. But fire is unpredictable, it can engulf entire villages without warning or regard. All he ever wanted was to run away from the blazing hell and build a home with me, a house without that fickle flame, a sanctuary in our own hearts.
As he rushed me to the water, hoping it wasn’t too late, I could see the light. He held me close, submerging me into the lake, and with what little strength I had, I whispered softly, “There will be no more fire for our family: the inferno dies today.” Forevermore, we will cleanse ourselves of the devilish coals. It’s time to walk away from that toxic hearth for good. 
