Daughter of the Sun

My palms are made of fire. I noticed it several days ago, when a horrible itch spread across my skin and I scratched my palms furiously, like a wild animal. Red blossomed like roses underneath my brown skin and they stayed there, blushing prettily. They burn. 

I’ve been filling the sinks with cold water from time to time and dipping my hands in just for a little relief. Sometimes, my palms feel so hot that I imagine steam rising from the pool of water until it is as scalding as my skin. If I squint hard enough, I can pretend that it has happened and I am a marvel waiting to be discovered or maybe the chosen heroine of a fairytale hiding in the modern world. I do all this behind locked bathroom doors, of course. If my parents saw this, I would be a dead girl walking. Water bills are expensive. 

When I am not soaking my hands, I wander around lost in a fantasy where I am the daughter of the sun with fire coursing through my veins. 

“You better watch out,” I tell my little brother when I see him. “I can burn you alive.”

“Yeah, right.” It’s his favorite phrase of the week and he uses it whenever he can. 

I don’t tell my parents of the fire pooling beneath my skin. Daydreams are a waste of time and feelings are just overreactions. So, I scratch and burn in secret, under dinner tables and blankets as we talk about school and studies and the rest of my life.

***

Summertime is when the heat in my skin simmers the most. The roses in my palms grow violent and angry as I scratch and scratch through endless days full of blank walls and scrambling thoughts, like a hundred angry ants swarming in my head. Sometimes, I think I understand them but more often than not, I don’t and I am left with a gaping hole in my chest that no one can see. Lately, it has been getting worse. If my palms get any redder, it will look as if I’m bleeding out my life force. 

Last night, I felt the words bubbling to my lips during dinner time. 

“Look,” I wanted to say. “My hands are burning hotter than ever. Any hotter and I will be shooting fire from my palms!”

But then my father started talking about something that happened at work and the moment passed and I felt foolish for even considering saying anything. My words are nothing but smoke to them. They only hear what they want to hear. 

Still, it doesn’t stop them from asking questions as we eat together, as a family. 

Are you practicing your music? Have you done the extra math problems? How is the summer reading coming along? Did you remember to wash the dishes? You are attending your brother’s soccer game tomorrow, correct?

I answer them all, as family is supposed to. We do a lot of things as a family; attend neighborhood picnics and school award ceremonies and work parties and weddings but mostly, we exist in the same house and exchange pleasantries from time to time. When things are bad, the pleasantries can turn into horrible words shouted through kitchen halls and closed doors. But in the end, what matters are the things left unsaid. They are left to burn, silent and angry, melting into the air between us and pressing into our skin.

***

There are days where the heat feels unbearable — like the sun has left the sky to live in my skin. Today is one of those days. But there are more important things to focus on, like my brother’s soccer game. 

At first, we walk quietly, the bag filled with his soccer gear lightly tapping my legs with each step. The park is not too far from our house and it’s a bright, sunny day. I can’t stop thinking that if my brother bumps into me, he will burn. I keep a distance between us. 

“Coach says we gotta win this time.”

“I’m sure you will,” I say, after a moment’s pause. 

My brother doesn’t say anything. I glance at him, at his brown skin darkening under the sun’s gaze and his small pink lips pulled down into a frown. I feel my brows come together like his, my nose scrunching slightly the way his did. I’m sure that to a distant observer we look more like brother and sister than ever. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. 

The heat in my skin flares. I scratch my palms furiously. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. It is not until we cross the street to the park’s entrance that I notice the red roses decorating my little brother’s palms, glowing in the daylight. I eye him carefully as the passing trees cast shadows over his sullen face. 

“Are you okay?” I wrench the words from my lips. 

He stops walking abruptly and scratches his arm. His hand falls to his side when he notices me watching. “I’m nervous.”

It occurs to me then that this soccer game might mean more to my brother than I had imagined. I rest a hand lightly on his shoulder. “You’ll do great. I know you will.” 

A pause. Then a hesitant smile.

We keep walking until we reach the soccer field. My brother takes his gear from me. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, before running off to his team. 

I can’t stop my smile as I walk to the bleachers, where all the parents sit. And I don’t know if I imagine it but for a second, the constant burn of skin fades. 

Usually, I’m the only one my age sitting at the bleachers. Today, a girl sits in the row behind me. She has skin like honey and sleek brown hair. She looks two or three years older but she is the only other one that is not a parent and it is enough to catch my eye. Her gaze lands on me and I nod my head in greeting. She slides down to my row to sit next to me. 

“You’ve got a younger brother on the team?” 

I blink. “Yeah. You too?”

“Of course.” She says, grinning and sticks out a hand. “I’m Lily.”

I shake it. “Rhea.” 

My eyes drop down to our hands in surprise. There is a fire underneath her skin, sister to mine. 

She tilts her head curiously. “Fascinating.” 

***

My brother’s team won that game but I only knew that because he told me afterward, cheeks flushed red with victory as we walked home. I had spent the game talking to Lily about where we went to school and what we liked to do when our time was our own and how parents never really understood anything and the way little brothers could be such a nuisance sometimes. 

I guess this is how friendships start —  with eyes catching, a small smile, numbers exchanged, and twin fires in both souls. 

“I’ll teach you something today.” It is the first thing she says when I meet up with her for the second time, near a small playground in the park. She is seated on the ground, legs splayed out wide before her with a small pile of leaves between them. 

“What is it?”

She pats the grass next to her and I sit down. “Watch this.”

I watch her pick up a waxy green leaf and glare at it. I stare at her. “Am I supposed to laugh?”

She doesn’t answer — doesn’t have to. The leaf she is holding starts smoking and then burns steadily away, right before my eyes. I gasp. 

“How did you do that?”

“You feel the fire too,” she says, handing me a leaf. We had not mentioned it since the soccer game last week. 

I scratch my palm without realizing it. “I guess so.”

“You can use it, if you really want too. Just imagine you are pushing it out from your veins into the leaf.” 

I try and manage to get the leaf to smoke but nothing more. She laughs at the dismay on my face. 

“Tell me, what do you feel?”

I’m not sure how to answer this question. There is a low hum in my ears and knots made of lava simmering in my blood, flooding my soul. I don't know how to go about untangling the knots and naming them for what they are. I had never been taught this.

“At first, it worked best when I was angry,” Lily says when I don’t respond. She grabs a stick off the ground. “When I’m angry the whole world explodes with fire.” The stick is now aflame.

My eyes widen.

“Better the stick than me.”

“Why are you angry?”

She hesitates, then smothers the stick with a blanket. “There are things happening at home. My dad wants to leave us.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

We are silent but only for a moment. It’s as if her admission opened up a gate in me. Words stream from my lips, describing the yells, the tears, the silence, and the unsaid all bottled up in my home.

 Only later do I realize that I had burnt the leaf in my hand to a crisp. 

***

We spend the summer burning leaves. I go back home every day with palms that no longer itch and skin that is only warm to the touch. The red roses in my flesh have faded away into a healthy pink. When I mention this to Lily, she only smiles.

Sometimes, I wonder if she was meant to find me in all my burning misery and I feel thankful. She had taught me how to understand what it means to be on fire. To be a daughter of the sun. 

There are days when we meet at the park and we both are aflame inside, to the point where touching would raise blisters on our skin. So, we spool the fire out of our veins like thread, talking, and burning leaves until there is no difference between the coolness of our skin and the fresh night air. 

It is a different kind of peace. A different kind of heaven. 

***

My brother’s palms are made of fire. He scratches his palms furiously, like a wild animal. Red blossoms like roses underneath his brown skin and they stay there, blushing prettily. They burn. 

One night, I take him out under the glittering night sky and grab a leaf from a tree in our lawn. 

“Watch this,” I whisper. 

The leaf lights up, a tiny flame dancing in my fingers. My brother sucks in his breath, eyes shining with delight.

 There are no more sinks filled with cold water. No more locked doors. No more red blossoms, silent scratching, and heads filled with fantasies. 

There is only fire.