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The first time anything happens is when Chris is six. Old enough to probably know better, but young enough not to care. It doesn’t matter though. All that matters is the pot of popcorn bursting to life on the stove. He wants it so much, he can hear it popping and crackling and his mum hasn’t come back yet to give it to him.
He tentatively walks up, his hand rising towards the lid. He hesitates for a moment, listening to hear for his parents steps. There’s no sound clicking against the floor boards, so instead he reaches out, one hand grasping the side of the pot and the other one removing the lid.
He flinches as a few pieces of corn kettle go flying, fist clenching against the metal objects in his hand. He pushes back with too much force, the pot falling to the ground with a loud clank. He hesitates, eyes going wide with the realisation of what just occurred.
He scrambles to the ground, picking the pot up and attempting to scoop its spilled contents back in. He can hear his mothers footsteps walking down the hall, and he knows he’s in trouble for not listening. She specifically said not to touch anything.
He freezes his movements as his mother walks in the room and lets out a loud gasp.
"Chris!" She rushes over, pulling his hands away from the pot quickly. She grasps them between her own, a horrified expression filling her face as she looks down and kneels on the floor beside him.
Her eyes are laced with confusion, as she looks over his hands carefully, hovering awkwardly mid way between sitting and getting up. She is half torn between standing and running some cold water and dropping them in surprise.
"There are no blisters," She mumbles, staring at his hands intensely. "There not burned."
Chris doesn’t understand, pulling his hands out of her semi-shaky grip and reaching for more of the remaining popcorn in an attempt to clean up his mess. “Sorry, mum. I just wanted to see it pop.”
His mother glances between him and pot, confusion mixed with slight relief. She reaches towards the pop, touching it for only a brief moment before pulling her hand back with a small gasp. She holds her two fingers between her other palms, lips pursed together in order to stop a swear as she rises to her feet and begins to run her hand under the soothing water. It had burnt her.
Her eyes, however are unable to look away from Chris.
"Its okay," his mother responds after a moment, but even Chris can tell she’s lying.
-
The second time Chris still doesn’t quite understand. It just doesn’t make any sense because it doesn’t feel like anything is wrong. All he wants to do is play with his new Spiderman figurine. His mum had offered him a sandwich, ruffling his hair in the process before giving him a kiss on the cheek.
As soon as her lips connect, she recoils backwards, her eyes wide. Her hand immediately pushes Chris hair back and resting the other on his forehead.
Her eyebrows frown in concern as she does a double take.
"Chris do you feel sick?" his mother asks, her voice slightly alarmed and Chris shakes his head.
"No," he replies and his mother just continues to press a hand against his forehead. She moves it to his cheeks, and then presses her other hand against his arm. She pulls back in shock, not expecting everywhere to feel so warm.
"Your burning up," she admits, "I’ll be right back. Don’t move, Chris."
She rushes into the next room and all Chris can here is tumbling and the shuffling of objects in the bathroom.
Making her way back she quickly kneels beside him. “Put this in your mouth,” and Chris does exactly what he is told, rather reluctantly as he finally puts his toy down.
He puts the thermometer in his mouth, his mother sitting rather impatiently beside him. After a few moments she pulls it out, looking down at the screen and looking even more confused then before.
She reaches back up, places a hand on his forehead once again.
"Mum?" Chris asks, "what’s wrong?"
She doesn’t answer for a moment, just looking at Chris with an unreadable expression.
"Nothing," She answers, rather tightly. She gives him one last look before standing back up, his hair finally flopping back down into place.
-
It is only a week later then the next event happens. This time it’s more serious then any of the other incidents, and Chris finally understands. This is definitely, not normal.
He doesn’t even remember why he’s so mad about it. Chris glares at the wall in front of him because it’s so unfair. All he wants to do is go outside and play, but his father won’t let him before he’s finished all his dinner. He doesn’t even like peas and he definitely doesn’t like broccoli.
He picks at his vegetables, mushing them around his plate.
"Finish them, please, Chris." His mother asks and Chris firmly shakes his head.
"I don’t want to," Chris argues, shoving his fork down with a loud clank.
His father responds, somewhat sternly because this is the third time they’ve had to ask. “Just because a broccoli looks like tree, doesn’t give you an excuse. Finish your dinner. You used to love it, it doesn’t taste any different.”
"No," he says stubbornly. Usually he does, but he doesn’t want to sit here and force himself to eat things that look like plants.
"If you won’t finish your dinner then you can’t go outside and play with your friends for the rest of the night."
Something inside Chris snaps, and he feels angry. He glares at his parents, tantrum rising and he raises both hands, dropping his remaining utensils on the table. He slams them down, fits hitting the wooden surface loudly.
It happens all too quickly and slowly at the same time. The moment his fists reach the table, a spark erupts. Bright, orange and yellow flames erupt from the side of his hands, springing out in a wave of fire.
His eyes go wide, his mother letting out a small yelp as everyone jumps backwards.
Chris lifts his hands slowly, staring at them in horror, unable to contemplate what just happened. The wood has turned a black colour, scorch marks almost creating a crater on each side of the plate, directly where his hands had hit. There are less, but still a few prominent marks spread outwards across the table, where flames had also manages to graze the surface.
It was definitely fire that had come from his palms.
"Chris," his mother mutters, staring at the scene before her.
He freezes, glancing up at them completely scared and unsure.
A look of realisation crosses his mothers face. As though something finally clicked, and everything strange thing that had happened before this moment finally fell into place.
Chris could create fire.