burn baby, burn.

with the struggles in my line of work, many develop an insensitive approach towards life. they find a way to care only about the things that need immediate attention. i'm a paramedic. well, i was, at least.

i've known i've always wanted to be a servant of some sort since i was a child, and i'd watch CSI reruns with my dad. he'd often ask me, "so, what do you want to be when you grow up?" without fail, my answer would be more or less like, "a person who helps broken people." heck, what did i know? i was six; but, it still mattered. at least to me. i'd usually wander off playing with my toys - making my action figures speak - by this time. 

determined to fix cross-sectioned hearts and treat simple paper cuts, i've been a the go-to person from the point of puberty of my year. i listened to all the stories, clutched all the heart-break, and carried my friends and family to and fro dark places. the selfishness of doing a good deed was my secret; the feel that you're the good person in the scenario, that you were the one who helped in a time of need. 

the early years of being a paramedic were the best. the thrill of rushing people to ambulances, providing them with CPR was one i never found boring. it wasn't until that ill-fated morning that i began having nightmares...

it wasn't unusual to hear alarms at odd-timings; i've acquired light-sleeping over time. the car accident that took place was quite close to where i was, so i hopped up and drove as quickly as i could. what i witnessed was the most frantic scene i had ever - two cars crumpled into each other as one of them caught on fire. the driver and her friend on the passenger seat were put to death instantly.

on the back seat crooned the worst sound i will ever hear. it was inhumane. a girl was stuck in the vehicle, her flesh being grilled and her skin melting; sticking to the maroon leather seats of the wreck of a car. it was like a ball of paper being set on fire. a pyromaniac's dream. she yelled and shrieked - her vocal chords, death-growling, were amidst a field of high-pitched attempts at survival.

for forty-five seconds, i felt my eyes roll back and my stomach flip, then harden. it was as if i was watching my very own suicide video. i could feel her anguish. i could, but i was frantically frozen. please, i said, put her out of her misery, lord. take away her life! when my colleagues managed to remove her from what looked like her hell, i saw her.

it has never been this hard to describe an image. it still resonates within the bleak corners of my mind. like a checkerboard, her bald head was glowing with a red passion. she was almost unconscious, yet i could still feel the stings of her skin. this woman had lost everything - her nose, eyelids, ears, hair, fingers. she was a perfect, unrecognisable tandoori roast, and i could never muster the courage to look at or cook meat again. 

with the struggles in my line of work, many develop an insensitive approach towards life. they find a way to care only about the things that need immediate attention. but not me. i'm an empath. i can still hear my screams when it's a bit too quiet. i can still feel my skin bubble and pop. i can still see myself being scorched. i can still taste the burn.

How I Lost My Pain - A Supernatural Tragedy told as Madison Motgomery

it is 3 in the morning, and i sit in the quietness of my closet - it matches my thought. i hold a lit candle in one hand, and my other is on top of it. i'm begging for something i once had and despised; something i dragged along with me throughout my career.

it was the commencement of the skeptics' search that drew me into the coven - the witches' circle. no one from the outside world knew we were what we were. we held a bond close to blood, we were sisters who sought to protect each other from the heretics with our small myriad of powers: telekinesis, divination, pyrokinesis, concillium, transmutation, descensum, and vitalum vitalis. only the supreme could perform seven of them, and the supreme i was going to be because i could feel it. they say that a new supreme is known when she has radiant health, which i can feel rushing through my veins as Fiona Goode - the current supreme - gets weaker and weaker. we grew friendly progressively as she saw a reflection of her perseverance and severe distaste for bourgeois people with a lack of ambition in me.

succeeding into a series of empowering women, i knew i wasn't deserving of the title of supreme; and so did Fiona. on the eve of the night of the Sacred Test for the Seven Wonders, she drew me into her cloud of portraits of previous supremes. she unravelled the story of her and her preceding supreme, how she slit her throat to obtain the Sacred Power. i knew it was my turn. it was my duty to take on the role and lead the coven into my glorious reign of elegantly intimidating witches. before i knew it, she did the same thing she did to Anna Leigh - to me. my blood was cascading through the rims of the rug and into the polished wooden panelling. my vision blurred, my skull weary. i don't remember anything further than that.

it wasn't until i was resurged by one of my sister witches that i was impaled by the groggy sensation tap-dancing over me, the gruesome, sandy taste, and the pungent smell of apparent death. i was still in pruney condition, though i managed to keep up with the day-to-day activities; then did it come to me, like a sudden storm surge, that i had lost something i once had. food tasted bland, cold showers weren't as refreshing, time went by particularly slowly, and boys didn't excite me much. i could stick my tongue into the throat of one and not feel a thing. i had lost my ability to feel.

so here i am, still trying to burn a hole through my hand. i probably have a third-degree burn now, but what's the point if you can't feel? i've just eaten everything in my pantry, yet i can't seem to be full. i have no thoughts, no ambitions anymore. i had always thought pain was the worst thing anyone could ever feel; the guilt-ridden, mind-eating type. i was wrong. it's the absence of pain.