The man in the chair opposite me is on fire.
He’s staring into the back of my head with his scorched irises, not blinking, not moving.
This is unnerving.
Why isn’t he doing something? Why isn’t he saying anything?
His head is nestled forward very slightly, enough for him to be looking up to look at me. I can see the flames searching for the exit behind his eyes, like trapped animals writhing to escape their captor.
Each lick of the orange element defying gravity to smother his skin I feel against my own.
Each agonising second I watch his face turn to charcoal and beyond is a triumph from the last.
“This is it” he says. “This is what you wanted to see “
His lips don’t move.
His eyes don’t wander
I’ve been looking at this man for a long time now.
Each time I look back at him, I can’t help but think the fire should have consumed him; the death of this seated stranger should have come an age before.
Why hasn’t he run? Why does he not help himself?
“This is what I am” he says. “This is what we are”
I ask him why he stays, why he endures the torment.
“You tell me” he says. “You’re the one just sat there”
