Eyes of Kerosene

The light in his eyes weren't a complete fire.

The light in his eyes wasn't a complete fire, but it was more like kerosene: it was meant to stimulate warmth, comfort, but I knew how dangerous it really was. Just one nudge, just one wrong move and the kerosene would topple over, and everything within his eyes would burn into a flame that couldn't be extinguished. It wouldn't take long to learn to stop fighting the flames. They would hurt at first, but then, after awhile, I learn to become numb.

I'm a magical, otherworldly person. One impervious to the flame. I've trained myself, I know the flame might hurt for a moment--but then there is nothing. The flames remain there, consuming my body, taking over and attempting to destroy, but I ignore them. They may leave marks. Marks of the burns that he gives me. It's a sign that he loves me. Tough love. These burns don't hurt me.

It's hard for him. He doesn't know how to support us.

He doesn't smell of kerosene to me, but other people notice. It makes them back away, retch in disgust, look at me worriedly. Apparently I carry the stench.

To me, I just see his eyes made of kerosene.

Reviews

[Nadia Vincent]

This is a very strong but a sad piece, written very well. You describe those traits with ease and make it easy for others to associate with.
Here you have touched on a very difficult subject but you also did it's seriousness justice. Well done!