Ablaze.

I remember times in our house when we'd have no electricity. Sometimes this was due to strikes, quite common here in the 70s and other times as a result of my parents breaking open the meter and stealing the money.

In those days, you had a meter in your house into which you deposited coins. The meter was locked with a padlock which you could break open, take back the money and then try to make it up before the meter man called to collect.

When we had no electricity, we’d cook on a little gas camping stove. Once my brother, about eight years old and my semi-inebriated mother, old enough to know better, were connecting the gas cylinder while sitting in front of our open fire. They managed to pierce the canister, causing a fireball and an explosion loud enough to bring the neighbours running to our door.

In an incredible feat of strength, my mother threw my brother across the room to safety while she put out the fire engulfing her feet and lower legs. She then answered the door to the neighbours with her hair singed and burnt skin on her legs, assuring them everything was ok.

Our family motto was ‘always conceal and never reveal the secrets of the brotherhood’ so we called no ambulance or doctor. My mother bore the pain of weeping blisters and open sores for two days before allowing us to take her to A&E, where she got a right ticking off for being so stupid.

For years afterwards, pieces of burnt plastic jutted out of my mother’s chair, and her legs forever had a charred look about them. My father’s favourite joke at the time was ‘I saw better legs on my grand piano, and I burned that Guy Fawkes night.’

Posted in response to @mariannewest's freewrite challenge

The prompt is Burnt Skin
The image is my own