Burn. Burn Just For Me….

 

 


Fire. The power of the conflagration as it consumes everything before it. Dominant. Unwavering. Merciless. The roar of the air as it is sucked into that vortex as the flames billow, the twisting colours that perform that mesmerising dance. Oh such glorious power embodied in the flames of yellow, amber, gold, orange, rust, copper and tangerine. The crackling, the popping, the groaning of the wood as it succumbs to that irresistible force. The hissing of a liquid, perhaps sap in a branch or the bubbling of melting plastic. Nothing halts the advance of this mighty wall of flame. A blaze of indomitable might that devours everything that it touches. The wood blackens and ignites, the dancing flames engulfing it, surrounding it. Rubber slowly melts, the blackened, acrid smoke spilling from it, paint peels and blisters before bubbling into the ether. Paper, so pathetic, it ignites without the touch of the flame, such is the heat that surrounds it as it folds and the flames burst upon it like a flower blossoming. Such a powerful force, such a destructive inferno that consumes and leaves only ash, blackened metal and the stench of consumption behind. Fire does not discriminate, it conquers and subdues. Nothing stands in its way. Fabric, wood, plastic, glass, vegetation – whatever it might be, it will be consumed by the marching troopers of flame, the army which becomes stronger and stronger as it advances. The more it consumes, the more it destroys and the more powerful it becomes. Fuel the fire, give it the fuel, keep it fuelled, watch it want more and more fuel and as it receive that fuel, see how it becomes even more dangerous, how it moves at such a pace to outstrip a running human, watch it demolish, devour and destroy. Fire.

Fire has always been a fascination for me. I find a beauty in its form and power. I would always volunteer to light the candles at dinner, striking the match and smelling that sulphurous scent as the match sparked and took light. I would watch the flame for a moment, observing this new form of life as it spluttered and guttered into existence. The flickering flame would eventually steady, like a foal finding its feet and then with the flame established I would introduce it to each wick of the four candles that always were presented for lighting. Those candles were never used twice. Dependent on how long dinner lasted, what remained of the candles would be thrown away and new ones placed upon the table. I always sought to light all four from one match, carefully moving the flaming match from one to the second, to the next and to the last. The gentle embrace of the yellow flame transferring from match to wick and then a new flame, a new offspring appearing. One, two, three and four.

Once complete and with still burning match I would turn and look for something else to ignite. How about father´s newspaper? How about the table cloth? How about my sister´s hair? The thoughts would come fast as I waited with my flaming wand, revelling in the prospect of bringing mayhem and response through the application of flame. Such immediate plans were thwarted as another member of the family would enter and distracted the flame would burn to my fingers causing me to mutter and then extinguish the match. The box of matches would be taken from me, although of course I had already secreted three or four in my pocket for use elsewhere. I knew that the match could be struck on the zip of my trousers and once again I would hold the power of fire in my hand.

What should I burn? Anything? Everything? I would take my brother´s comic and lift the lit match to the corner as I held it over the bath. I would watch as the flames began to grow as I held it as long as I could, seeing the oranges and yellows rise and devour the faces, the characters and the words in the speech bubbles. Look at how complete the fire is. See how it eradicates the artistry, obliterates the words, erases the very existence of everything in this comic book. Wipes them from the face of the earth. I would allow the blackened and still burning comic to fall into the bath and stare until it was entirely black.

“HG! What is that smell?” called a voice (sometimes) from the other side of the door.

“I think a neighbour is burning rubbish on a bonfire,” I would answer easily without hesitation or delay as I turned and opened the window to release the smoke.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I am doing in the bathroom, go away!” I would order.

There would be a pause and then the voice would instruct.

“Hurry up.”

I would ignore the injunction and instead turn on the tap to turn the brittle blackened paper into fragmented, sodden blobs which would wash away down the plughole. I would find a bottle or canister and spray it to mask the scent of smoke before sitting on the toilet and hold the remaining matches in my hand as I contemplated what would be done with them. Where would I lead my fire to next?

Thus my sister would find occasional dolls kidnapped and consigned to a funeral pyre made in the garden. I would stack the twigs and small branches, the newspaper twisted between them, before placing Cindy or Barbie on top and then with a solemnity not amiss at a religious ceremony, I would strike the match and recite the doll´s sins which necessitated her purification through fire. Trees would be scorched in the garden as I sought to turn their bark ablaze. Photographs would be plucked from albums and then placed carefully on an already burning fire to watch the flames delete the people contained therein. My abusers found their images particularly sought after and removed from albums not just at my home, but at mu uncle’s home also. Let them burn what they have done and what they do. Burn.

I found the clinical precision of flame matched me. Incessant, unforgiving, relentless. It dispensed oblivion without concern, hesitation of demurring. Just in the way that I did.

So much I found to burn, so many scenarios and materials that came to perish by my obsession with the application of flame as I experimented and learned and with everything about me, I required larger, more satisfying and more memorable outcomes.

During part of my childhood, my friends and I would devise games in the darkness cloaked garden during Autumn and Winter. We would fashion swords, shields, armours, mace, flails and much more as we created adventure upon adventure. Invariably, we would set a fire behind one of the outbuildings in the expansive gardens. This fire would serve as a campfire which we would gather around, our young faces illuminated by the flames as we discussed which orc encampment we would raid or whether the red dragon would fly down from its lair and seek us out after we had stolen part of its treasure hoard. One of my friends was called David and there came an occasion where my father, David´s father, David and me were all sat in my father´s car as he drove us to some place on a Saturday afternoon.

“Dad, may I play at HG´s house tonight?” asked David.

His father, a dour man who thought himself far brighter than he was ( a plodding bean counter at some government institution) twisted in the passenger seat and addressed his son.

“Yes, you may,” he then turned his gaze on me “but don’t come back stinking of that bloody smoke. It is every time you play with him.” he added.

Him? Him? Him!

I felt my own flames burst into life within me. Who did he think he was referring to me as him.

I looked towards the rear view mirror and my father´s eyes rested on me as he tilted his head, entreating me to offer confirmation. Weak as always father.

“Oh, no, David will not smell of smoke, there won’t be a fire at my house tonight,” I replied. I returned David´s father´s gaze. He did not scare me.

He looked at me for a moment and then nodded in satisfaction before turning back to face forward and engaging my father in some no doubt tedious observation about double entry book keeping or such like.

In keeping with my word, when David and my other friends joined me at my house, along with my brother, we did not build a fire. I explained that this would invariably attract those (in the game) who were hunting us and thus the garden remained cloaked in  relative darkness. My friends were engaged in the collection of various ingredients from the garden to add to our collection of potions which were concocted and stored in an old stone outhouse. Whilst they attended to the gathering of mushrooms, fallen fruit, strips of bark, leaves and herbs from the herb garden, I slipped away from the group and shrouded in the near darkness made my way to a section of the garden where various logs were stored under cover against a shed. My prize lay three rows across and four columns up. My hand slipped inside and touched upon the top of the bottle secreted there. I pulled it free. It was an empty lemonade bottle which would ordinarily be returned to the store for a small payment, but this time it had a much more important repayment to make.

I slipped the bottle inside my coat and scurried along the old wall of the garden right to the end. I clambered neatly over the fence at the end and landed in the bushes behind it which meant I was now in another garden, which belonged to a neighbour. I knew precisely where I was going (I had done this many times before as a convenient short cut) as I made my way through the bushes, stepping through a fence, along the back of another garden, slipping over a low wall, along another garden and then over another stone wall to find myself in the garden that belonged to David´s family.

I crouched down feeling that familiar sensation of power starting to rise within me.

“Him?” I hissed quietly.

I saw ahead the garden shed at the rear of the garden and advanced towards it. I crouched down low and looked upwards. The lawn was long, narrower than that at my house and rose to the house where I could see the outline of light around the curtains framing various windows. The moon offered a little light and I waited as I ensured nobody happened to be gazing from a window into the ink black garden. Satisfied I was unseen, I reached inside my coat and pulled from the pocket the lemonade bottle. I twisted off the cap and placed it in another pocket. The heady smell of petrol wafted upwards. Ah, such a delightful scent. Smells like power. I had stolen the petrol earlier that day from the jerry can kept in the garage. Some had slopped onto the stone floor of the garage and I had been tempted to light it and watch the flames do their dance until the petrol burned out but I resisted. I knew there would be a far superior display to enjoy.

I poured the petrol along the wood of the shed, letting the potent liquid coat the lower section as on my haunches I moved backwards and continued to pour ensuring that I soaked a patch of earth and autumnal leaves at the north-western edge of the shed, until the bottle was empty. I then replaced the cap and secured the now empty bottle back into my inside coat pocket. I reached to a different pocket and unzipped it, removing the box of matches as I moved back further, retreating into the bushes at the end of the garden.

“Him?” I repeated.

I took a match and struck it against the box. It flared up and I cupped the flame with my hand allowing it to become established. I looked up and then said “Burn. Burn just for me.” I threw the match a small distance so it landed on the soaked patch and the flames immediately caught. There was the satisfying noise of “wumph” as the flames erupted and then that marvellous moment as the flames streamed along the petrol embraced edge of the shed. The blue and yellow flames soared as the petrol burned and then the colours shifted to orange and yellow as the wood of the shed came under assault from the growing fire. I watched and backed away. I stared at the increasing fire, the first sounds of cracking emanating as the dry wood starting to succumb to its assailant. I continued to back away until I felt the stone wall against my back and there, tucked away in the bushes, I stared through them at the gathering inferno. The flames rose higher, long tongues of orange reaching upwards, the wood groaning and popping, cracking and crackling as the flames continued to grow. Up they climbed and I watched. I saw as they began to lick underneath the glass window, I watched as they coiled about the other sides of the shed, I watched as they made their way up to the roof, an orange ivy climbing and engulfing. There was the first sharp crack as a window pane shattered the glass broken but still remaining in the pane for a moment before it shattered again and slipped from its pane onto the floor. Now the flames could, like some burglar, encroach within, the long limbs of orange flame stealing within to seek out whatever lay within. Garden tools, fertiliser, chemicals, toys, paint, bicycles – whatever it might be was now being consumed.

“Jesus! Call the fire brigade!” cried a voice from the house. I could see someone stood at the top of the stone steps which led down into the garden. They were frozen, unsure as to whether to advance or to perhaps run and grab the garden hose to start some rudimentary fire fighting. I felt another surge within me as I heard this reaction to my fire-starting.

I waited another moment, savouring the scene of the conflagration as the shed was almost now entirely engulfed. It was old, dry wood which stood no chance under the accelerant assisted inferno. Such satisfaction at seeing those flames and knowing that the smell of smoke was indeed not coming from my garden, just as I promised and instead I had brought the smell of smoke here instead along with my good and able friend fire.

It was time to go and I clambered over the stone wall, slipping into the neighbours and quickly running back to my own house.

I had made it burn. I had showed him.

This was just a start.

Burn. Burn just for me……

59 thoughts on “Burn. Burn Just For Me….

  1. ava101 says:

    Nice. Gives me new ideas.
    My father used to talk about us right in front of us in the third person, often using forms of “it” or pig names for us and using “he/him” doing so. Or numbers, also as “he” or “it”. Not even our names talking in the 3rd person.

    I wish I knew how to burn certain structures down without being caught.

  2. Pingback: Burn. Burn Just For Me…. - Dark Triad Personality
  3. TYGER says:

    AWESOME

    Burn it down

    F those MFers

    You are amazing.

    1. Asp Emp says:

      Laughing….

    2. Poison says:

      I see you live up to your username, Tyger! XD

  4. tyger says:

    Thank you. You have helped stopped tyranny and put yourself at risk. A True Hero and Warrior

  5. mollyb5 says:

    HG , I was waiting for you to write something about fires . I think you can look back if you wanted …I commented on fires . HG ? Is this the first time you have wrote about being attracted to flames and the power of fire ?

    1. HG Tudor says:

      No.

  6. Liberty Lane says:

    I use to have a fascination with striking matches and lighting things on fire. But I never had the space to burn anything without something else catching fire. You were just a little boy.
    No harm, No foul.

    1. A Victor says:

      Ho Liberty Lane, I found your comment interesting, and it made me realize, the fact that he, as a little boy, planned and executed this type of vengeance is not the norm. I also loved fire and once at about the age of 9 almost burned down a friend’s house. Her parents had given her candles and matches, what they were thinking I’ve never figured out. I ran down after the parents in a screaming panic. No vengeance, no planning, no harmful intent, a good lesson learned. I still love fire but developed a healthy respect for it’s properties. HG also developed a respect for it’s properties, from how I understand this article, but took it a far different direction than I did. A child who plans and executes something at this level of destruction is a dangerous child, not normal as per a normal or empath’s definition of “normal”.

      1. A Victor says:

        That was supposed to be “Hi” Liberty Lane…

      2. Poison says:

        Well said, A.

        1. A Victor says:

          Thank you Poison. I hope you are well, I haven’t seen you for a while.

    2. A Victor says:

      HG’s respect did not involve fear but rather a recognition of it as like himself and as such a fascinating and useful tool. I am thinking out loud now, thank you for your comment, it got me thinking.

  7. leelasfuelstinks says:

    Burning little Leelas dolls meant signing your “death certificate”. 👊👊👊👊👊👊👊👊

  8. Rebecca says:

    HG,

    Your article was informative about yourself, I think I understand you a bit more. My brother wasn’t the only one who liked fire,except I wasn’t thrilled by setting things on fire like him. I enjoyed watching the flames dance, the smell of the wood burning. I love that burning wood smell and smell of gasoline. I never knew anyone who liked gasoline smell like me,until you. Thought it was interesting that you find it pleasant too.

    On Halloween last year I went to a friend’s party. They had set up a bonfire in the back yard, I spent all my time talking with everyone sitting around the fire and enjoying the color,warmth and the dance of the flames.

    1. A Victor says:

      Hi Rebecca, I like the way gas smells too, since I was a kid. I always found it odd since everyone else seemed to think it smelled bad. I also enjoyed the smell of cigarettes as a kid and of course bonfires or wood burning fireplace fires. I think the gas and cigarettes are things people don’t talk about so much as they might be thought odd for enjoying those scents. I say we develop “Eau du Gasoline” and become wealthy? 😁

      1. Rebecca says:

        AV,
        Good idea! Lol We could also add that fresh cut grass smell. I have a very sensitive nose, I joke about being half bloodhound.lol I can smell things through their package. I can smell a gas leak before the stupid alarm goes off. I remember in science class we were doing experiments with chemicals and I could smell almonds from the liquid tube. I forget the chemical it was,but the teacher told me most people can’t smell anything and if they do,it smells like almonds. Half bloodhound, that I am,no worries, I got my rabies license. 🙃

        1. A Victor says:

          Haha! I am the same way! It drives me crazy sometimes! Is rather not smell many of the things I do! 😂

          1. Rebecca says:

            Lol I’m usually the first to cry, “What is that smell? ” And everyone else is like, What smell? Lol

          2. Poison says:

            Ftr, there’s a theory that some people are “supertasters” and indeed do have much more refined senses of smell and taste than the average! I wonder if you two might both fit the bill? My sense of smell isn’t bad, but I definitely can’t smell things through their package!

            Cut grass is lovely! The smell of gas makes me feel ill, though. Funnily enough, I happen to know more people who enjoy the smell of gas than who don’t–I was surprised to read you haven’t met anyone else like that until now, Rebecca! I’m glad you’ve had the chance. ^^

          3. A Victor says:

            Poison, I have actually considered checking into a career as a perfume sniffer, whatever the technical term for that is. But every so often I have allergies that completely remove my sense of smell so gave that idea up. I have one daughter who did inherit it, she is the opposite of me though, many fragrances offend my sense of smell so I can’t where them, she wears them all and loves them! She’s very strongly Geyser though, so I wonder if that plays into it…! Cut grass is one that sometimes affects me funny, it can be too strong, but I’m always sniffing flowers! That tropical flower scent when I stepped out of the airport in HI was one of the things that made my trip!

        2. Joa says:

          Good thing you didn’t poison yourself. Chemicals with the smell of bitter almonds are not safe.

          1. Rebecca says:

            Joa,

            The teacher supplied the chemicals, I don’t recall the name of the chemical or why he had it.
            I know while I was in that high school, the grade ahead of me actually set fire to the science class room. I have no idea what caused it,but it made quite the distraction from school work that day. Lol Another time I recall there being a bomb threat and the police came with their K9 units. We were made to stand outside in front of the school. I remember thinking, if there is a bomb,why are we all standing this close to the blast range? I moved as far away as I was allowed.

    2. Violetta says:

      I hate gasoline, but I’m old enough to remember when it was legal to burn leaves. That Autumnal smell was the most amazing thing, and I really miss it.

      1. A Victor says:

        Yes! Leaf fires smell the best! Is forgotten about them, thank you!

    3. Joa says:

      A lot of people like the smell of gasoline. Lots of my friends.

      I also inhaled it since I was a child 🙂 Later, I understood why.

      Playing with fire is also a standard. Especially in boys. Both my sister and I burned various things. A colleague from work, as a 7-year-old boy, dismantled the electric socket, stuffed it with paper and set it on fire, uuuuuu…

      Fire and water fascinate. As a child, I preferred the latter.

      I had a lot of dangerous ideas. And my sister helped me to implement them. It’s a miracle that we survived 🙂

      Human has many coded smells, even the “ugly” ones, that he associates with pleasant things, so he likes them.

      1. Rebecca says:

        Joa,
        I know what you mean,the things my brother and I did and survived. Lol I would catch alligator snapping turtles, crayfish, minnows, bullfrogs, toads, tadpoles, crickets, spiders, snakes, mudpuppies, salamanders, lizards, sirens, beetles etc. I had a small zoo of animals in my parents’ house that I would feed and take care of, most of them I caught. I would release majority of what I caught. I did keep a female box turtle I named Myrtle for a few years. We had a squirrel too, named him Big foot. I was a very good hunter, I just made them pets and didn’t kill them.

        I’m still good at catching things, now when friends have animal problems, they call me to get the critter out of their house and even at work, bird hurt itself at work, calls me, I get the bird and take it to the bird sanctuary we have here out of town. I love animals and never been hurt by any of them and I’m not afraid of them either. They know when you’re there to help them.

        1. Joa says:

          Rebecca, I smiled again. It’s great to read it 🙂

          When I lived with my sister, our home was filled with hordes of rescued animals. Although it is more thanks to my sister, a crazy-animals 🙂

          Unfortunately, I have a few animals on my conscience. For example, I fed a sparrow chick with a pipette, too quickly, and “stuffed it” with egg yolk… It died in my hands and I couldn’t do anything.

          Or I didn’t make sure, that my child closed the door and the dog caught our domestic rat ☹ He was still alive, but as an invalid with a dysfunctional nervous system. Eh, I have terrible remorse. He was so intelligent, outgoing and loved…

          Fortunately, 99% of the animals survived contact with me and managed to improve their fate 🙂

          Thank you that you are! ❤

          1. Rebecca says:

            Joa,

            I tried helping injured animals too. My dad accidently hit a toad with the lawnmower once and I took care of its wounds. It lost its one front leg,but I got it healthy again,and released it. I had a turtle who had a cracked shell and I took care of it for a while. It’s shell mended,but took a while. The crack scared,but it didn’t seem to bother the turtle after it healed.

            My brother and I sneaked out of the house , when we lived in Pennsylvania, and my dog ,unknown to me, came out with us. The dog got hit by a car in front of me,but he survived and wore a leg cast for months. I felt really bad for causing my dog to get hurt and that was the last time I sneaked out with my brother. My dad never punished me for sneaking out,he felt my guilt was enough punishment. He was right, I had to look my dog in the face when he was hurting and it was my fault. I cried like he died,instead of just getting hurt,so much was my guilt and pain. He lived for many years afterwards and he always protected me. He was the best dog I ever had,the one that surpassing the rest.

      2. A Victor says:

        Hi Joa, yes, dangerous ideas, once my brother and I, at the ripe old ages of 5 and 4, backed the car down the driveway, almost into a busy street before we were caught. He on the floor manning pedals, me at the steering wheel. I’m sure his work had more to do with our movement than mine did but it was fun. By the time we were 9 and 10, we were terrified of consequences and had become different people. I think the lack of fear, combined with the presence of vengeance, malice and forethought are what set HG’s activities apart from typical children. He would’ve been quite the handful for a parent! And the abuse he suffered took him in a different direction than the abuse I suffered took me, almost solidifying his position more than altering it’s course. I wonder how it might have been different without the abuse, for both HG and myself, and even others who’ve experienced abuse as children. But there is no changing it so it’s a waste of time to consider, I suppose, except to possibly help future victims. Anyway, thank you for your comment, it was helpful to me for further processing.

    4. Joa says:

      I love sitting by the fire! From spring to fall, we do it quite often.

      À propos of potatoes (again! 🙂), I love salted potatoes from the embers, selected with a stick. The more ash outside, the better. Yum 🙂

  9. Rebecca says:

    My brother was attracted to fire, he enjoyed setting the woods on fire behind our house once. We were stationed down in TN on the Navy base, there was a whole investigation, but my brother got away with it. He also used to throw stink bombs in people’s mailboxes and all that purple would be all inside their mailbox and on their mail.
    As an adult, he was a volunteer fireman for 25 yes and would tell me stories of what he carried out of people’s houses. He told me about a dog once and I told him to shut up, stop talking about it! I didn’t want to hear about a poor dog. He stopped, he only liked to push me so far because he knew, if he pushed me too far that I would attack him and we’d be hitting each other. He knew my limits…he was older and favored by mom.

    I learned how to climb out windows, my brother taught me. We would sneak out together, as kids and go and play Ghost in the graveyard with friends. We rarely got caught and he taught me how to sneak back in the house,avoiding the creaking steps on the stairs. I was his shadow during childhood. We moved so many times, so many places, we only had each other each new place we went. We made friends easily, but my brother was more extroverted than me and made friends easier and faster than me.

    1. Joa says:

      I smiled when I read 🙂 It reminded me of my own childhood 🙂 This beautiful, fantastic land 🙂

      1. Rebecca says:

        Joa,

        Most of my childhood was spent outside in the woods playing war games, catching creatures in ponds, lakes etc, swimming, riding bikes , was an active kid and still a hyperactive adult,as my friends and family all know. Lol

        Poison,

        Oddly enough people I know, or have met don’t Ike the smell of gasoline, it usually isn’t something that people are falling over themselves to purchase in the perfume shops. Granted, I haven’t asked everyone I know if they like gasoline smell, but when we’re out and getting gas, everyone so far I’m out with says, “Ooww, gasoline!” *gag noise* I thought I was the only one that was going, oh, this is nice smell.*long sniff* lol And I was a Navy brat,so I moved around a lot with my dad being in the Navy and all…so, I’ve met a good amount of people.

        1. Joa says:

          The smelly bombs in the mailboxes reminded me of the packages I and my friend were planting. I won’t say more. I’m ashamed.

          There were hundreds of crazy, sometimes completely pointless ideas 🙂

          I was never bored. And so it is today.

          1. Rebecca says:

            Joa,
            I hate to be bored, nothing worse than being bored to me. My mom knew this and would sometimes punish me by making me sit down for long periods and do nothing! Auuuggghhhh! She really enjoyed locking me in the closet and I wasn’t allowed to make a noise,so no singing,no tapping, no rearranging the closet stuff. It was the worse punishment, I’d rather take the belt, the branch, the fist or a few kicks. Did you ever see the newer” Carrie” movie? There was a scene where her mother put her in the closet, that was a rough scene for me, triggerville for me.

          2. Asp Emp says:

            Rebecca, interesting to read “My mom knew this and would sometimes punish me by making me sit down for long periods and do nothing!” – maybe narcissist parents “learn” from us in how they could manipulate us from when we were young by ‘observing’. It is a horrible way to treat a child that is inquisitive, intelligent, genuinely interested in learning. You mentioned a good film. I like your word “triggerville” – because that implies more than one ‘reaction’ and / or ‘thought’, because of “the lack of control now, returns us to the lack of control then”. It took me time to watch certain programmes / films on tv without ‘triggers’ especially after my dog died. It is much easier now, it depends how deep the original ‘wound’ is / was. Interestingly, I find watching certain programmes / films more enjoyable / entertaining because of the new ‘perceptions’ by learning about them on this blog.

          3. Joa says:

            Rebeeca, I know it.
            I have already written this here somewhere. My sister and I were locked in the dark, one in the toilet and the other in the bathroom. But I’ve always been a rebel, and I also knew my sister couldn’t be alone. I knocked, cracked and sang on purpose. We communicated through the vent ventilation, by tapping on various objects and counting out.

            As you write, corporal punishment, beating with a military belt or a leather thong on bare ass and others – sometimes I preferred it, because it was faster. It hurt a bit, it burns the skin a bit, and that’s it 🙂

            I don’t need to be on the move. I’m not bored anyway. I can sit still and do nothing, and my head is crazy – everything is always boiling and splahing there, a thousand thoughts per minute 🙂

            As a result, semetimes I have a problem with concentration. But when something catches my attention, I devote myself entirely to it. The rest of the world is disappearing and I am fully focused. He just has to snap 🙂
            Narcissists can do this. At work, they make good use of it, giving me the right incentives and conditions. The effects even dazzle me sometimes, although I am very modest by nature. Oops 🙂

            I also get hyperactive, when something touches me and my heart melts in happiness. It could be anything. A ladybug that will sit on my hand.

            I try to contain these emotions. With people I know well, I can loosen a bit 🙂

            —————–

            I don’t know the movie. I checked it was a horror movie. I do not watch. Its my choice. It’s too much, too intense, and it works on me for too long.

            We watched horrors and trillers all the time with N1. And boxing. I used to know them all once.
            Even when I was pregnant N2 took me to the movies for a horror movie.

            I am opposed to horror movies and gangster movies. Human has a natural inclination and curiosity towards this type of topic. Human is always drawn to evil. Human likes to be scared. I believe it has a very damaging effect on people’s morale and psyche. As if they did not see, that this is how they get used to evil… They stop reacting as they should.

            Unfortunately, this theme is dominant in cinema and games nowadays. This is another brick to build a world that will not be enjoyed by anyone…

            VETO.

            —————–

            Rebecca, don’t take my words personally. I wanted to explain my position.

            Many of the things you write about are very close to me 🙂

          4. Asp Emp says:

            Joa, you made me laugh RE: your first sentence. Your second sentence is just as amusing. I can totally relate (LOL). 🙂

          5. Rebecca says:

            Asp Emp,
            I get triggerville from watching some movies, especially if its a rape scene or kinship to rape, I’m outta there, can’t leave fast enough. I feel anxiety, fear and anger and I can’t take the noises and screams….nope…I’m out.

          6. Asp Emp says:

            Rebecca, I understand. I suppose I may ‘react’ by changing the channels but not react in the way you have described here. I suppose a friend of mine would switch the tv off if it occurred in their presence. Thank you for sharing that about yourself. I am sorry you had similar experience.

          7. Rebecca says:

            Joa,
            That’s exactly why I prefer the beating than being put in a closet and made to sit still and be quiet. The beating is over quicker, the time in the closet is the real torture. We are a lot alike in how we think, my mind is always thinking, thinking, thinking, so many ideas,but my focus can be obsessive at times,too focused where everything else is forgotten and not important. You don’t offend me,no worries. I know what you mean, you’re fine. Thanks

  10. leelasfuelstinks says:

    What were the consequences? Did you get caught, H.G.?

    It´s by the way not unusual for a psychopathic child to set fire. Setting fire is one of the key symptoms of child psychopathy.

    1. HG Tudor says:

      No. People like me do not get caught.

      1. leelasfuelstinks says:

        You should teach us how you do that 😉

        1. HG Tudor says:

          You’d still fuck it up, so the answer is no.

          1. leelasfuelstinks says:

            Whoooah, Senseiiiiii! 😝🤪

      2. leelasfuelstinks says:

        Well actually, I DID get caught, didn´t set fire but ………. Goodbye Euros – €€. 🤦‍♀️

  11. Lucycita says:

    Lol the last time my best friend’s brother kidnapped and assassinated her barbie doll some thirty years ago,she grabbed his neck pushed him up against the wall and taught him a good lesson he still remembers. You were lucky that your sister was so patient.

    1. Poison says:

      Your friend sounds badass, good for her!

      From the opposite end of the spectrum–two of my cousins and I used to draw “makeup” on their Barbies and give them extreme haircuts and plastic surgery. None of us were much into fashion dolls, but we did share a slightly morbid sense of humour! Lol

      1. Asp Emp says:

        Poison, the “make-up”, was that using biros and / or permanent marker pens by any chance? Yes, Sindys got “make-overs”, including hair-cuts, god, I can remember using the scissors and that was when I was around 6-7 years old. And unfortunately I got a bit carried away, my sister was sat there on the floor, happy…..laughing at the memory…..I think the scissors got confiscated (LOL). We were just too young to comprehend.

      2. Lucycita says:

        Oh yes she really is and thank god I have her, we all need a friend like that. As for the makeup and extreme haircuts on dolls, I can well understand cos I used to do that too. No use of fire but since I don’t have siblings and my cousins were not always around I fought with my dolls when I had to fight with someone. They were the real victims of my rage lol

    2. Rebecca says:

      Lucycita,

      My brother never did anything to my Barbie dolls, I didn’t play with mine much at all so, he probably knew I wouldn’t have cared if he set Barbie on fire. I probably would have watched him do it. Now if he touched my Breyer horses, which I know he wouldn’t have dared done, he would have been attacked by me and we would have been fighting in my room.

      1. Lucycita says:

        Aww Rebecca I remember someone brought me sth like this once when I was little but I couldn’t appreciate it. It stayed in my parents bedroom because my mother liked horses. She believed that horses were the animals of freedom.

        1. Rebecca says:

          Lucycita,

          I love horses and tigers,they’re my favorite animals. I’ve had Breyer horses since I was 8. Dad would get me one every birthday and special occasions when he came home from being overseas on Naval duty.

  12. Alison says:

    My narc was involved with arson and setting fires from a disturbingly young age. So much on this site speaks to me and my situation. I’m glad I’ve at least been able to find truth somewhere.

  13. Becoming Observant says:

    Why would a narcissist always respond positively to a returning empath? Should it be this easy? After five years of off and on?

  14. A Victor says:

    This is one of my favorite articles, I feel like it encapsulates so much.

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