Author’s Note: I guess what I want to know is why it’s never art until it’s been through the fire. It’s not enough to have a natural talent. You have to rework it until it bleeds.

Or burns.

“What are you doing?” His words—all of them—were a demand, some kind of yell or maybe a scream, but over the roar of the fire, she couldn’t hear any of them. She didn’t care. Her eyes were routed on the flames, watching them climb higher, flicker and shift in a macabre dance. The heat warmed her skin, and then he had hold of her, dragging her away from the bonfire.

She didn’t struggle. She knew struggling was pointless. He already had the wrong idea. This was not about hurting herself. She didn’t need to do that.

“What the hell were you thinking? You could have killed yourself standing so close to that thing. Why would you set that thing in the first place? You could take down half the city, not to mention you just threw away everything you worked on for the past year! All your paintings…”

She turned her head and looked at him, a small smile on her face. “Don’t you see, Dad? It’s not art until it’s been through a fire. I was just helping it along.”