SHOULD’VE BURNED THIS PLACE DOWN WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE
A Story of Early Fire, Quiet Questions, and the Slow Burn of Growing Up
By Mason Absher
I should’ve burned this place down when I had the chance.
And by “this place,” I mean my childhood home.
And by “had the chance,” I mean—
I was three years old,
and I threw a hand towel into a preheating oven.
Now, I don’t remember why.
Not exactly.
It wasn’t revenge.
It wasn’t science.
It wasn’t a cry for help.
I think I just wanted to see
what would happen
if soft met heat.
Three years old.
Tiny.
Curious.
Chaotic.
Wearing one of those zip-up footie pajamas
with the grip on the soles
so you could run toward disaster
with traction.
I’d seen adults put things in ovens before.
Casseroles.
Lasagnas.
Pans of stuff that always came out sad and steaming.
So I thought—
why not this?
A hand towel.
The ugly yellow one.
The one that always looked dirty,
even when it was clean.
It deserved to burn.
I opened the door.
Preheat setting humming.
Warmed air like a slow exhale.
I tossed it in like a chef plating vengeance.
Closed the door.
Walked away.
Now, you’d think an oven full of fire fabric would be a bigger deal.
But here’s the thing—
No one noticed.
Not at first.
Not when the smell started.
Not when the heat shifted.
Not until the kitchen was full of smoke
and my mother screamed like she’d discovered the concept of mortality.
They yanked open the oven.
Pulled the towel out with tongs.
Threw it in the sink.
Flames hissed.
Steam rose.
It looked like a murder scene from a Martha Stewart reboot.
And me?
Just standing there.
Holding a plastic truck.
Looking up.
Like—
“Oh. That’s what happens.”
They asked me why.
I said:
“I wanted to see what it would do.”
Which, honestly,
should’ve been the first clue
that I wasn’t going to be a normal adult.
But here’s the wild part.
They didn’t yell.
They didn’t punish.
They just—
cleaned it up.
Opened a window.
Gave me apple juice
and a warning glance
like “let’s never speak of this again.”
But I remember it.
Vividly.
Not the heat—
the possibility.
That I could do something
small
and simple
and change the temperature of a room.
I should’ve burned it all down when I had the chance.
Because I grew up.
And the fires got smaller.
Politer.
Internal.
No more hand towels.
Just quiet resentment.
Just anger managed by breathing techniques and sarcasm.
Now I light candles.
I simmer.
I reheat trauma in safe, microwaveable containers.
But there’s still a part of me—
that three-year-old in the grip-soled pajamas—
who remembers
how fast things can catch,
how satisfying it is to watch smoke rise,
and how sometimes,
it’s not destruction.
It’s just curiosity
with consequences.