C3 Burned Memories

Liam POV

Don’t play with him!

The shout rang sharp and disgusted across the garden of the elite private school. Back then, I was just an eight-year-old boy, only wanting to play like any other child. But suddenly, a group of boys surrounded me, blocking every escape route.

“Why shouldn’t we play with him?” another boy asked, stepping closer and glaring at me as if I were something dirty and repulsive.

“Because he’s a jinx!” the first boy spat, jabbing a finger right at my face. “Everyone knows! He killed his own parents! They died because of him. He’s cursed... he’s a killer!”

My blood ran cold. I shook my head frantically, tears spilling instantly down my cheeks. My small lip trembled violently.

“No… no, I didn’t,” I blurted out, my voice cracking. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to…”

I turned and ran, desperate to escape their cruel words.

“Liar!” the leader shouted, rushing after me.

Before I could get far, strong, rough hands shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled backward and fell onto the grass, scraping my knees raw. I curled into a ball, covering my head with my arms, as they kicked dirt at me and hurled insults that cut deeper than any blade.

“It’s true! You burned your own parents! You killed them! Jinx! Killer!”

I sobbed silently. I just wanted my mother. I just wanted my father. I wanted someone to tell me I wasn’t evil, that I wasn’t the monster everyone claimed I was.

Then a voice cut through the noise, cold, wicked, and terrifying.

“Wait.”

The boy who had started it all leaned down, grabbing me roughly by the collar and yanking me up until I stood shaking on my own legs. A cruel, twisted grin spread across his face. He looked at the others and nodded.

“Since he’s a killer and loves fire so much, how about we show him exactly what it feels like? Let’s burn him alive, just like he burned his parents!”

A deadly silence fell… then excitement erupted.

“YES!”

“Teach him a lesson!”

“Let the jinx feel the pain!”

“Burn him! Burn him!”

My blood turned to ice. I screamed and struggled, kicking my small legs, trying desperately to pull away. “NO! Let me go! Please, I didn’t do it! LET ME GO!”

But there were too many of them, bigger, stronger, and full of hate. They dragged me across the garden, my feet scraping uselessly on the ground, pulling me toward the long, dark stone corridor beside the school building.

They slammed me hard against the cold wall.

Two boys pinned my arms wide, pressing my shoulders painfully into the rough stone so I couldn’t move an inch. Another held my legs tight, keeping me trapped and helpless.

Then the leader stepped forward.

In his hand, a small silver lighter flickered.

“You like fire, don’t you, jinx?” he sneered, stepping closer until the heat from the flame touched my pale skin. “You like watching things turn to ash? Well, now it’s your turn.”

“Please… stop,” I begged, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… please don’t…”

The boy laughed, a high, cruel sound that would haunt me forever. Without another word, he pressed the burning flame directly against the thin fabric of my shirt, right over my upper arm.

It caught instantly.

Fire.

It flared bright orange and scorching hot, spreading fast across the cotton and eating through to my skin.

“STOP! HELP ME! STOP, PLEASE!”

I screamed at the top of my lungs, thrashing and twisting to shake it off, but they only held me tighter. They laughed. They watched. They enjoyed my suffering.

“STOP! SOMEONE HELP ME! PLEASE!”

With a sharp gasp, I jolted upright in my massive bed, screaming loud and raw, exactly as I had done that day.

Seventeen years had passed, but the memory remained as clear, as tormenting, and as painful as if it had happened yesterday.

I sat there, gasping for air, my skin soaked in cold sweat. Without thinking, I reached over and rubbed my palm over my right upper arm, right where the old burn mark sat. It was rough, raised, and still very much there, a permanent reminder of everything I had endured.

I swung my legs out of bed and stood, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Barefoot, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass window that spanned almost the entire wall of my penthouse. Below, the city glowed bright and alive beautiful, yes, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside me. The memory played on a loop, the fire, the smoke, my parents’ screams, and me standing there, helpless to save them.

“Maybe it was my fault,” I whispered, and hot tears slipped down my cheeks.

Without another thought, I grabbed my car keys from the nightstand. I didn’t bother changing out of my silk pajamas I didn’t care. I just walked out.

I started the engine and drove fast through the empty streets, my mind fixed on one place the only place that had ever felt like a refuge. The only place where I could outrun my trauma, burying myself in work until the memories faded.

I drove straight to Sterling Group.