“In The Order, our bibles were doctored,” I told him. Flame hung on to every word I said. “The passages and gospels were scrambled and misplaced. Much of The Word was hidden from us. If it did not suit Prophet David’s lustful ways or intent for his people, he simply discarded it.”
I closed my eyes and recalled the past few days. Lilah had always told me there was more to the Bible than we had been taught. That there was good and conviction. That certain phrases and books spoke directly to one’s soul. I still had not read it, until now. Until I realized that my husband’s father mirrored Prophet David in his treatment to his flock. Flame’s poppa had told his son that he was evil. He used the bible and snakes and his twisted faith to trick his vulnerable son into never doubting his word.
I kissed Flame’s hand. For the first time since he had woken up, I saw a glimmer of hope stir in his dark stare. “What I just said to you, it was from the Bible, baby,” I said, and kissed his wedding ring. “There is good in the Bible too. Just like there is good inside you. You are not evil. You are not condemned to hell. You are my heart. You are the reason why I breathe.” I placed my hand on my growing bump. I saw the panic quickly set in Flame’s expression—drawn eyebrows and fast erratic breathing. “Our baby is good, Flame. Our individual pasts may not have been, but our future will be.” I smiled, believing every single word I was saying. “And so will our child.”
Flame’s eyes squeezed shut. His head began to shake. “I saw Isaiah in the woods, Maddie. I was with my poppa and Pastor Hughes. They used snakes on me.” He choked back a sob. “Did you see them, Maddie? They hurt us. I thought Isaiah was good. But the snakes bit him too.”
I cupped his cheek. “Flame, Isaiah is gone. It was not him tied to the tree beside you. The men who tied you up… they were not your poppa or Pastor Hughes; they are dead too.” I combed my fingers through Flame’s black hair. It was soft after I had washed it, the longer strands falling over his forehead. It made him appear so young. He studied my face as I touched him. I saw only confusion in his expression. Flame was still lost. He was so, so lost. Flame clung on too tightly to his past. Even now, years later, he found it very difficult to let go of the people who shaped him, the people who brainwashed him to believe he was nothing.
I let my hand drift from his hair, down his neck, to his arms. My fingers were careful not to touch his knife wounds or snake-bitten skin. His arms began to twitch. I realized he was feeling the flames wake from their slumber. He hissed, confirming my assumption. The scars… the flames and the scars and his poppa’s wicked voice.
“Baby?” I queried, knowing Flame still watched me. I was blessed. For a man who could not maintain eye contact, with me, he devoured my gaze. It was confirmation of his love. He did not know how to directly express his love, but it was the little things he did that showed me, beyond measure, how I belonged in his heart—the way he kissed me, soft and searching, a far cry from his formidable size and what most people saw. How he held me when we slept. How he always held my hand. And how he watched me, always watching me. Not with malice or dark intent, but as though he could not fathom how we had found one another, and he dared not look away for fear it was an apparition that might dissipate and transform into a dream.
I knew this because I felt it too.
“Why do you cut yourself?” I traced the outline of some of his old scars.
“To make the flames go away.”
“Why do the flames come?” I asked gently. His eyebrows pulled down, showing his confusion. I knew he could not reason the significance of this question. Edging closer, so close that I could feel the hairs of his beard caress the back of my hand, I asked, “Where is the pain? Where does it start? When the flames come, where do they begin?”
Flame looked as though I had asked him an impossible question to answer. I knew, to him, I probably had. I ran my fingertips over his arms, gently so as to not hurt his new wounds. Flame’s breathing increased and his nostrils flared. His lips trembled as if my whispered touch was his manna from heaven. “Where, baby?”
Moving his free hand from beside him, Flame took my hand with a timidity and gentleness that was almost my undoing. His hand trembled as he guided my hand over his arms. He moved so slowly, frown lines forming on his forehead. I wondered if he worried the flames would burn me or affect me somehow. Or maybe he was cherishing my touch, the touch of his wife denied for so long to him. I became breathless as his hand guided mine across his shoulders and down the center of his chest. Then our hands stopped. They stopped, clutching over his heart.
“There,” he answered, gripping my hand tightly, like he feared I would vanish if he did not. He was answering my question about the flames. They started in his heart. I closed my eyes and tried to not break. His heart. Flame struggled to express his emotions and feelings, struggled to understand them like most people could. But the flames came from his heart. Bending down, I met his eyes. Painstakingly slowly, I lowered my head and moved our joined hands aside. Flame became breathless as he watched my lips meet the skin of his chest. His chest raised and fell at the contact. And then I pressed a single butterfly kiss over his heart, over the place that both begat and imprisoned his pain.
Flame groaned, as though the action pained him. I lifted my head, not wishing to cause him any distress. Tears tumbled down his cheeks like twin waterfalls of agony. “Flame,” I whispered, feeling immediately guilty for upsetting him. “I did not mean to hurt you.”
Flame did not seem to hear my apology. Pushing his hand against my cheek, his fingers wrapped in my long hair. My eyelids fluttered shut at the movement of his rough palm against my skin. When I opened my eyes, his gaze was searching mine. “You could burn,” he stated, his voice gaining strength—graveled tone replacing a whisper.
“Burn?” I sought clarification, leaning further into his touch, unwilling to lose the connection I so badly craved.
Flame’s attention was pulled to the bedroom door. I followed his gaze to the flames of the fire in our living room. His eyes were so dark I could see orange and yellow flames dancing in his enraptured stare. Flame’s hand trembled on my cheek. “He told me I was in the fire.” As he spoke, Flame’s voice lost its recently gained strength. The ‘he’ was his father, I knew this. He was the man responsible for all this pain. Flame’s voice always changed in tone when he talked about his poppa. It lost its gravel tone and adopted that of the little boy begging for the love of his father. It was always heart breaking.
Turning my head, I kissed Flame’s palm, a kiss to give him strength. Flame’s breath hitched, but he continued. His eyes remained fixed on the fire. The rhythm of the dancing flames and crackling wood seemed to give Flame’s confession the fuel it needed to be set free. “He said that the flames lived inside and they would burn anyone who got close.” Flame looked straight at me. “That’s why no one can touch me. Why I hurt everyone whoever gets close.” Flame’s eyes strayed to my swollen stomach. “I will hurt you, Maddie. I have hurt you already.” His body jerked, his face morphing into agony as he remembered something. “The fire. You were already in the fire.”