Reflections of an Arsonist

You ask me why I did it?
Do you want to know why?

You look young. Too young to have fought in the war. Maybe you've seen the movies, or the footage, or read the papers, and think you understand. You look to me as if I am entirely alien to you, as if I was not as you were years ago. Perhaps I was never as you were, though.

I was first burned, truly burned, when I was fifteen. We've all been burned before, as children. Place your hand on a hot stovetop, pick up a burning piece of metal, reach too close into the allure of the flame; we all know the searing which follows. These burns are trivial things. They do not persist as a true mark of the chosen would, they fade and fade until they are indistinguishable from the skin around them. You, you could not show me where you have been burned. You might hazard a guess, recall your childhood accidents and vaguely point to discolorations on your skin and claim that you, too, have suffered, but I do not wish for you to indulge in such things. To be burned is to bear a true mark.

When I was younger, what seems like a lifetime ago, my home burned around me. My family had escaped before it was too late, but I was trapped within. I succumbed to the smoke shortly thereafter. By some miracle, a fireman had pulled my body from the wreckage, almost unrecognizable from the burns and soot which coated my skin. I woke up much later. By some divine miracle, I did not pass on that day. In my every waking moment, I wish I had.

You, my friend, do not know the feeling of waking up as a prisoner in your own body, entirely beholden to the pain you now feel. I can tell, because you still hold a spark in your eyes. Few things numb the pain. Nothing takes it away.

But on that day, I was cleansed. I was cleansed of the innate uncleanliness of that which is human, I was cleansed of the insecurity and fear and inhibition that once plagued my daily life. I was free. If I had survived the fire, I could survive anything. I knew then, that I was chosen.

You did this.

I joined the Army when I was nineteen. Barely passed my physical, but they let me in anyways. I excelled in basic, though. I guess the fact I was in constant pain already made it a little easier to adjust to. When I finished, I was to be assigned a position, and sent to the Front. Some higher-up must have thought it was funny sending me to a flamethrower unit. Either way, I had found my work.

I grew to love the fire I held in my hands. Wielding the very instrument of my salvation against my enemies seemed very fitting at the time, and I took to this grisly work with enthusiasm. Those faced with the jet of cleansing flame, though, failed to survive its glory. Enemy entrenchments fell, pillboxes were cleansed, and bunkers rendered empty. None yet had survived the cleansing which I had. I suppose I saw this as a sign of their inferiority, their weakness. They had perished where I had survived, and this gave me power over them. Perhaps they were simply not ready. Then again, I wasn't either.

I found a sort of safety in it. When the flames were licking the enemy and not me, I could no longer feel the burns. I felt no pain, only the gentle warmth of the swath of fire. I suppose that's quite ironic, if you think about it. I didn't care.

Well, I should get down to business.

I hear things. When I'm alone, I hear the roar of the flamethrower inside my ears, inside my head. It doesn't go away. It grows to drown out everything, just as it had when I stood against enemy bunkers, watching the flame consume all within, the orange glow filling my eyes.

And yet you still ask why I did it?

I suppose I should finish my story. You never fought. You never bled or burned on the field with the rest of us. Do you want to know what you hear when the fuel runs dry, and the flame sputters out? When all around you has been cleansed in your fire and your rage? When the air stands still and hot, reeling from the outpouring of pure human suffering? When the crackling of seared grass and flesh ceases, and the blaze subsides?

I don't hear you anymore.

You hear silence.

一名纵火者的自白

你问我为什么做那事儿？
想知道为什么吗？

你看上去很年轻。年纪小到去参军打仗都不行。或许，你应看过那些电影，或者见过些镜头，读过点报纸，然后以为自己什么都懂了。你看着我，仿佛看着一个陌客，就如很多年前的我和你亦是全然不同的。尽管，本便如此。

我第一次被烧伤，真正被烧伤，是在我15岁的时候。在孩童时代，我们都曾经被燎灼过。一次把手放在热炉灶上的体验，或是拿起了一块炽烫的金属，抑或未能经住火焰的诱惑而向它靠得太近；我们都知道，灼伤将随之而来。但这些仅仅是微不足道的事情。它们并不会如被选中般经久不衰，它们会逐渐黯淡，直到与周围的皮肤融为一色。而你，你无法向我展示你身体何处曾有灼伤。你可以大胆猜测，回忆你的童年事故，含糊地指着你皮肤上的色斑，声称你也曾历过苦难，但我不希望你深陷其中。被烧伤才会留下真正的印记。

青春已如同上一世的记忆，在我家熊熊燃烧时，火浪将我包围。 我的家人逃了出来，在为时已晚之前，但我却困在了里面。没过多久，我便慑屈于浓烟的浸熏。 顷刻，是一场奇迹，一个消防员把我的身体从房屋的残骸中拉出，我裹满了焰尘，几乎不成人形。 过了许久许久，我醒来。 宛若某种圣迹，我并未死去。但在我每一个清醒的时分，我都在悔憾着自身应当死于那日。

你呀，我的朋友，你对痛苦的感知只会拘泥于你如今所承的苦，你根本没法想象那种感受，那种每每醒来时，身体里好似困着一个罪人的感受。 我看得出来，因为你的眼里仍存有花火。没有东西能麻痹那种苦痛。它无法被抽离。

但在那一天，我被洗净了。洗净了人类与生俱来的不洁，洗净了曾经困扰着我日常生活的不安、恐惧和压抑。 我是自由的了。如果我能在火灾中幸存下来，我就能在任何事情上幸存下来。那时我知道，我被选中了。

是你做的.

我19岁时参了军。差点没有通过体检，但他们还是让我加入了。不过，我在基础训练中表现得很出色。我猜，是因为长久处于痛苦的事实令我更容易适应军队。新兵训练结束后，我被分配入队并派往了前线。有些首长肯定是想着把我送到喷火器部队是件有趣的事儿。不管怎么说，我总算是有了自己的工作。

我对我手中所掌控的火焰变得愈发喜爱。那时候，挥舞着这救赎工具来对付我的敌人是种很搭的事儿，所以我满怀热情地接下这项骇人的任务。不过，那些面对净化的火焰喷射的人们却没能在它的光辉中幸存。敌人的堑壕颓圮，掩体被清理，就连碉堡也被扫荡一空。 但没有一个人在我的清洗中幸存下来。 我想我把这看作是他们的劣势、他们软弱的一种标志。他们在我活下来的地方灭亡了，这让我拥有了超越他们的力量。也许他们只是没有准备好。话说回来，我那时也没有。

我在其中找到了一种安全感。 当火焰舔舐敌人而不是我时，我就再也感受不到灼烧了。感受不到疼痛，只有火苗温和的暖煦。要我说，你要是好好想想就会发现它真的很讽刺。当然，我并不在乎。

好了，我应该开始做正事了。

我听到了一些东西。当我独自一人时，在耳畔，在脑海，我听见火焰喷射器的咆哮。它未曾消失。它逐渐淹没了一切，就好似我面对着敌人的掩体，看着火焰侵吞其中一切，橙色的光芒充盈在我的双眼。

然而，你仍问我为什么要这样做？

我想我应该完成我的故事。你从未参加过战斗。你从来没有和我们其他人一起在战场上流血或燃烧过。你知道当燃料耗尽，火焰熄灭时，当你周围的一切都在火焰和愤怒中净化时，当空气静谧而炽热，当它们被纯粹的人类苦难所淹没时，当被焦草的哔剥和肉块的滋啦声停止，烈焰消退时，你会听见什么吗？

我再也听不到你的声音了。

你会听见沉默。