Privatized Freedom Sample Excerpt

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​First, there was heat.

Not the cozy, 'wrap yourself in a blanket on a chilly evening' kind of heat. No, this was the 'you left the oven on and crawled inside for a nap' kind. A tremendous, all-consuming tickle, far beyond simple human descriptive words like pain or agony. It was pure feeling. Maximum stimulation. This heat didn’t just burn, it had opinions.
Every nerve in Ashton’s body screamed in detailed protest to flee, to recoil from the sensation. An impressive feat, considering they were also busy bubbling and sizzling the same way butter in a frying pan did. But there was no escape, there was only the heat.

Of course, the flames weren’t to be outdone by the heat. Unsatisfied with simple destruction, they aimed for artistry. Crispy skin, perfectly roasted muscle, and blood boiled to a fine champagne fizz. Not just burning him, they were plating him for judges.
 

His nose? Gone. Singed away like a bad idea, and yet, because life isn’t fair, he could still smell. The acrid stench of burned hair clung to the air, mixing with the oddly nostalgic aroma of melted polyester and overdone meat. Was it horrifying? Yes. But Ashton had to admit, there was something almost comforting about the smell of himself roasting. It reminded him of those food carts in the wet market. He pondered for a moment if he smelled like grilled chicken. Or was it pulled pork? He couldn’t decide. The flames weren’t offering feedback.
 

His brain? Boiling merrily inside his skull. And despite that, of course, Ashton kept thinking. The absurdity of it all swirled in his mind. Even as his body betrayed him, his thoughts remained, stubbornly narrating his demise with the same forced wit he’d used to navigate life. If nothing else, he thought, at least his sense of humor hadn’t melted away. Wait, humor? Wasn’t this insanity? Yes. Most certainly, he was insane by this point. The heat did not disagree.
 

His eyes? Popped like old gel lenses left out in the acid rain, which he found both rude and unnecessary. But, alas, as he had come to expect, the flames had no regard for politeness, and despite the whole 'no eyeballs' situation, Ashton could still see.
 

Oh boy, could he see.
 

The fire was dazzling. A real holo-vid extravaganza. If it hadn’t been actively murdering him, Ashton might have applauded. The flames twisted and danced, their colors shifting in ways he didn’t know fire could. Vibrant oranges, deep blues, even a splash of magenta. It swirled about him, a viscous liquid that sputtered out and evaporated into twinkling sparks that floated upward, blooming into lazy, suicidal fireflies.
 

Beautiful.
 

For one brief, surreal moment, he wondered if he should name them. A particularly bright spark pirouetted around what remained of his knee with a cheeky, go-getter attitude. Ashton decided it was named Steven. He’d have named him aloud, had he still possessed lips with which to speak, but Steven understood. He was cool like that.
 

Then suddenly, through the roaring symphony of burning flesh and existential despair held back by stubborn sarcasm; a sound out of place. It was faint at first, but it grew in volume until he couldn’t take his mind off of it. Irritating, digital, rhythmic. It sounded like… a microwave?
 

Ashton sat up on what used to be his hands, took a deep, not-at-all-existent breath, and opened his missing eyes.
 

“Yep,” he thought. “Still on fire.”

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