The Smoke and Mirror

"I rode the balance beam from time to time," she said matter-of-factly, as if we had all, at some point or another in our lives, had our flaws get the best of us.

"What do you mean, 'rode?'" he asked.

"I played with fire.  Hourly and often.  That's what I mean," she answered.  "And you?  Haven't you ever played with fire, Trumball?"

Trumball thought about this inquiry for many moments.  Sure, when he was younger, in his elementary days, he had been an actual pyromaniac.  His parents frequented the best speakeasies and hotels in Chicago and since he was too young to go, he had only asked one thing of them each and every time they left at dusk.  "Bring me a set of matches, will you?"  It was the least they could do.

Over the years, Trumball had amassed over 7,000 boxes of matches.  He was very proud of his collection and was completely unaware that he was developing the mentality of a hoarder at such a young age.  He stacked them neatly in a closet, as if they were books that needed to be read one day.

"Trumball?  Did you hear what I said?" she said as she snapped her finger to wake him up.

"Yes, of course," he said.

"Yes, you heard what I said?"

"Yes, I learned to play with fire very young.  Very, very young," he mused.

"And now?" she asked.

"Now?  Now, I suppose I'm an arsonist of sorts," he acknowledged.

"Just because you like the sight of fire doesn't make you an arsonist, Trumball," she scoffed.  "We all like to look at the pretty lights.  It's who we are.  Everyone should be so lucky to bespectacled, don't you think?"

"I suppose.  But I am an arsonist.  This much I know," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Trumball," she said.

Trumball cried silently to himself.  He knew who he was to this world.  What he had kept behind closed doors.  What he had swept under the rug.  What he had razed for no good reason.

"Trumball, what's the matter?" she asked as she put her tiny hand on his oversized shoulder.  He had become a monster to no one but himself.

Trumball turned to the mirror and counted the fissures in his forehead.  When had he aged beyond his years?  How had he bored himself of the light.  Everyone needed light.

Everyone needed it.  Until they gave into their tired lids.

Until they flipped their switch.