They abounded in my youth. Such is the risk when one lives with spirits of wind and flame. Mother's had split into two. The twin, equally formidable, had made its home in the sister. The two did not take well to their human prisons. They lashed out, unrestrained, at any whom they perceived as a threat. It might only take one wrong word. They were easily threatened. They lashed out often.
They seared and scorched and scalded. The rest of us beseeched our souls for cooling rains. It was never enough to douse the flames, but every so often enough would fall to soothe the blisters rising on our skin. Every day, it seemed, the fires were renewed with fervor, and every day we called the rains, hoping for even the slightest repsite.
I wonder if the walls of that home are still stained with the unseen remnants of those fires. I think we all are.