You ask me why I did it?
Do you want to know why?

You look young. Too young to have fought in the war. Maybe you've seen the movies, or the footage, or read the papers, and think you understand. You look to me as if I am entirely alien to you, as if I was not as you were years ago. Perhaps I was never as you were, though.

I was first burned, truly burned, when I was fifteen. We've all been burned before, as children. Place your hand on a hot stovetop, pick up a burning piece of metal, reach too close into the allure of the flame; we all know the searing which follows. These burns are trivial things. They do not persist as a true mark of the chosen would, they fade and fade until they are indistinguishable from the skin around them. You, you could not show me where you have been burned. You might hazard a guess, recall your childhood accidents and vaguely point to discolorations on your skin and claim that you, too, have suffered, but I do not wish for you to indulge in such things. To be burned is to bear a true mark.

When I was younger, what seems like a lifetime ago,?my home burned around me. My family had escaped before it was too late, but I was trapped within. I succumbed to the smoke shortly thereafter. By some miracle, a fireman had pulled my body from the wreckage, almost unrecognizable from the burns and soot which coated my skin. I woke up much later. By some divine miracle, I did not pass on that day. In my every waking moment, I wish I had.

You, my friend, do not know the feeling of waking up as a prisoner in your own body, entirely beholden to the pain you now feel. I can tell, because you still hold a spark in your eyes. Few things numb the pain. Nothing takes it away.

But on that day, I was cleansed. I was cleansed of the innate uncleanliness of that which is human, I was cleansed of the insecurity and fear and inhibition that once plagued my daily life. I was?free. If I had survived the fire, I could survive anything. I knew then, that I was chosen.

You did this.

I joined the Army when I was nineteen. Barely passed my physical, but they let me in anyways. I excelled in basic, though. I guess the fact I was in constant pain already made it a little easier to adjust to. When I finished, I was to be assigned a position, and sent to the Front. Some higher-up must have thought it was funny sending me to a flamethrower unit. Either way, I had found my work.

I grew to love the fire I held in my hands. Wielding the very instrument of my salvation against my enemies seemed very fitting at the time, and I took to this grisly work with enthusiasm. Those faced with the jet of cleansing flame, though, failed to survive its glory. Enemy entrenchments fell, pillboxes were cleansed, and bunkers rendered empty. None yet had survived the cleansing which I had. I suppose I saw this as a sign of their inferiority, their weakness. They had perished where I had survived, and this gave me power over them. Perhaps they were simply not ready. Then again, I wasn't either.

I found a sort of safety in it. When the flames were licking the enemy and not me, I could no longer feel the burns. I felt no pain, only the gentle warmth of the swath of fire. I suppose that's quite ironic, if you think about it. I didn't care.

Well, I should get down to business.

I hear things. When I'm alone, I hear the roar of the flamethrower inside my ears, inside my head. It doesn't go away. It grows to drown out everything, just as it had when I stood against enemy bunkers, watching the flame consume all within, the orange glow filling my eyes.

And yet you still ask why I did it?

I suppose I should finish my story. You never fought. You never bled or burned on the field with the rest of us. Do you want to know what you hear when the fuel runs dry, and the flame sputters out? When all around you has been cleansed in your fire and your rage? When the air stands still and hot, reeling from the outpouring of pure human suffering? When the crackling of seared grass and flesh ceases, and the blaze subsides?

I don't hear you anymore.

You hear silence.

一名縱火者的自白

你問我為什么做那事兒？
想知道為什么嗎？

你看上去很年輕。年紀小到去參軍打仗都不行?；蛟S，你應(yīng)看過那些電影，或者見過些鏡頭，讀過點報紙，然后以為自己什么都懂了。你看著我，仿佛看著一個陌客，就如很多年前的我和你亦是全然不同的。盡管，本便如此。

我第一次被燒傷，真正被燒傷，是在我15歲的時候。在孩童時代，我們都曾經(jīng)被燎灼過。一次把手放在熱爐灶上的體驗，或是拿起了一塊熾燙的金屬，抑或未能經(jīng)住火焰的誘惑而向它靠得太近；我們都知道，灼傷將隨之而來。但這些僅僅是微不足道的事情。它們并不會如被選中般經(jīng)久不衰，它們會逐漸黯淡，直到與周圍的皮膚融為一色。而你，你無法向我展示你身體何處曾有灼傷。你可以大膽猜測，回憶你的童年事故，含糊地指著你皮膚上的色斑，聲稱你也曾歷過苦難，但我不希望你深陷其中。被燒傷才會留下真正的印記。

青春已如同上一世的記憶，在我家熊熊燃燒時，火浪將我包圍。 我的家人逃了出來，在為時已晚之前，但我卻困在了里面。沒過多久，我便懾屈于濃煙的浸熏。 頃刻，是一場奇跡，一個消防員把我的身體從房屋的殘骸中拉出，我裹滿了焰塵，幾乎不成人形。 過了許久許久，我醒來。 宛若某種圣跡，我并未死去。但在我每一個清醒的時分，我都在悔憾著自身應(yīng)當死于那日。

你呀，我的朋友，你對痛苦的感知只會拘泥于你如今所承的苦，你根本沒法想象那種感受，那種每每醒來時，身體里好似困著一個罪人的感受。 我看得出來，因為你的眼里仍存有花火。沒有東西能麻痹那種苦痛。它無法被抽離。

但在那一天，我被洗凈了。洗凈了人類與生俱來的不潔，洗凈了曾經(jīng)困擾著我日常生活的不安、恐懼和壓抑。 我是自由的了。如果我能在火災中幸存下來，我就能在任何事情上幸存下來。那時我知道，我被選中了。

是你做的.

我19歲時參了軍。差點沒有通過體檢，但他們還是讓我加入了。不過，我在基礎(chǔ)訓練中表現(xiàn)得很出色。我猜，是因為長久處于痛苦的事實令我更容易適應(yīng)軍隊。新兵訓練結(jié)束后，我被分配入隊并派往了前線。有些首長肯定是想著把我送到噴火器部隊是件有趣的事兒。不管怎么說，我總算是有了自己的工作。

我對我手中所掌控的火焰變得愈發(fā)喜愛。那時候，揮舞著這救贖工具來對付我的敵人是種很搭的事兒，所以我滿懷熱情地接下這項駭人的任務(wù)。不過，那些面對凈化的火焰噴射的人們卻沒能在它的光輝中幸存。敵人的塹壕頹圮，掩體被清理，就連碉堡也被掃蕩一空。 但沒有一個人在我的清洗中幸存下來。 我想我把這看作是他們的劣勢、他們軟弱的一種標志。他們在我活下來的地方滅亡了，這讓我擁有了超越他們的力量。也許他們只是沒有準備好。話說回來，我那時也沒有。

我在其中找到了一種安全感。 當火焰舔舐敵人而不是我時，我就再也感受不到灼燒了。感受不到疼痛，只有火苗溫和的暖煦。要我說，你要是好好想想就會發(fā)現(xiàn)它真的很諷刺。當然，我并不在乎。

好了，我應(yīng)該開始做正事了。

我聽到了一些東西。當我獨自一人時，在耳畔，在腦海，我聽見火焰噴射器的咆哮。它未曾消失。它逐漸淹沒了一切，就好似我面對著敵人的掩體，看著火焰侵吞其中一切，橙色的光芒充盈在我的雙眼。

然而，你仍問我為什么要這樣做？

我想我應(yīng)該完成我的故事。你從未參加過戰(zhàn)斗。你從來沒有和我們其他人一起在戰(zhàn)場上流血或燃燒過。你知道當燃料耗盡，火焰熄滅時，當你周圍的一切都在火焰和憤怒中凈化時，當空氣靜謐而熾熱，當它們被純粹的人類苦難所淹沒時，當被焦草的嗶剝和肉塊的滋啦聲停止，烈焰消退時，你會聽見什么嗎？

我再也聽不到你的聲音了。

你會聽見沉默。