Actually, I didn’t mean to start the fire.
I was trying to do two things. One, do what kids do. Experiment. Learn. Have fun. Two, I was trying to improve the quality of the driveway.
See, the driveway was an old asphalt driveway. Lots of cracks in it. And as you well know, cracks in an asphalt surface wind up growing grass.
My solution? Pour gasoline on the grass in the cracks. Then light it with a match! (Perfectly safe for a kid, right?)
Now, I could have just poured gas on the grass and left it. I knew that would kill the grass. But remember, I also wanted to have fun. And experiment.
I had started about half way down the driveway. I would pour the gas on the grass along the crack, and then move the gas can away – I didn’t want the gas to start on fire. Then I’d light the gas soaked grass with a match.
So, as I was doing this, I was working my way up the driveway, getting closer and closer to the house. The driveway terminated at the garage door, with the entryway inset slightly into a hill. This resulted in two cinder block walls on each side of the driveway, about 4 foot high or so.
As I wanted to keep the gas can away from the flame, after my last pouring onto the grass, I moved the can nearly against the garage door.
Next, I lit the line of grass that was gasoline soaked and WHOOSH, the gas can erupted in flame! I was very puzzled at how this happened back then, as I took the necessary precautions. Of course, the fumes were collecting inside the enclosed area, and I didn’t realize this. Now, the can that was up close to the garage door was burning, spewing flame… and they were reaching to the top of the garage door frame, starting to smoke against the house. It’s a little bit fuzzy after this point. I know I tried to put out the fire, but no luck. My mom is the one that put it out. Somehow, she smothered the fire.
Now I had to face the Crime Scene Investigation. Was it on purpose? An accident? Even my fault? OF COURSE NOT! Well obviously, it was. Absolutely.
The first investigator was my mom. “How did this happen?” Well, my answer was, “I don’t know. I was just pouring gas on the grass in the cracks, and the can started on fire”. My mom was extremely doubtful. But, I stuck to my story. I was definitely worried about what would happen when my father got home.
My dad did arrive, and not too much later. And, of course, questioned me. I stuck to my story. I was terrified of telling my father it was my fault, my responsibility. I fully expected that if I admitted that I had done this, albeit accidentally, I would be beaten to within an inch of my certain death (You can read more about my dad beating me here). So, my dad in his naive way was unable to get the truth. He did want to smell my hands for indicators of a match, but the smell of gasoline on my hands overpowered anything else that I might have handled or touched.
So, without the ability for my parents to prove I had been responsible for starting the fire, the cause was left a mystery. Neither of my parents are deeply critical thinkers. However, there were certainly enough clues, and valid questions that could be asked, that could entrap me. But they did not ask these nor delve into all of the available facts and crime scene data.
My parents did not believe me. Partially cause I already had a bad habit of lying, and also because they knew that even though they could not prove it, I did it.
As time marched on, I still would lie, but I never had the occasion nor need to lie about anything as significant as the fire. But the lie about the fire just kept eating at me. And eating at me some more.
You might have read some of my other posts, and know that I was raised up in a religious, insane, dogmatic and cult-like manner. This can lead to all sorts of mental instabilities as there is definitely a lot of Psychological (definitely Psycho) pressure applied. In this situation, it was at a church service. The preacher was likely preaching all manner of hellfire and brimstone, and I just couldn’t handle it anymore.
I walked over to my parents, and confessed. I told them what happened, and apologized. I knew, I just knew I was going to get the hell beat out of me. Amazingly, my parents forgave me and told me that I’d suffered enough. Not sure if they told me that right then, or later, but I was pretty stoked I did not get beat.
However, the fact that they now KNEW I’d lied – I just admitted to it, after all – led to being believed less (or not at all) about everything else. If I said the sky was blue, they would choose to believe that it was not. It wasn’t until I was honest about something that I knew would result in detriment to me that the beginning of trusting me began.
It took a long time for me to build up in others the expectation that if I stated something was a certain way, that indeed, it was that way.