Flammable Contents
They strip us, first. They strip us of everything—our clothing, our belongings, our names, even our hometowns. We vanish from the official records, just some anonymous naked human bodies kept in cells.
Who they are, what they call themselves, that doesn’t matter, not really. I find a little solace in knowing their days are numbered—their ideology requires the existence of enemies to function, and sooner or later, they’ll run out of easy prey, and either pick a fight someone can’t beat, or turn on each other. Fascism, after all, is still a suicide cult at the end of the day. The fire that sustains it will always burn itself out.
They don’t intend to kill us—they’ve made that much clear. Knowing what they’re going to do instead, I find this deeply unfortunate.
†
The earliest reported case of spontaneous human combustion was written about in 1613. The victim, one John Hitchell, was found burned to death in his bed by his wife; a pamphlet about the strange event called it “fire from heaven.” That description would set the pattern for most accounts of the phenomenon throughout the following centuries: victim’s flesh and bone burned down to ash, but the surrounding area oddly undamaged. I always thought it sounded underwhelming—if I had to burn to death, I at least wanted the consolation of not burning alone.
†
They show us a few of the women who came before us—their chests scarred, their genitals maimed. I suspect they intend to inflict the latter on me—they have neither the skill nor the desire to try to reassemble my penis, and will likely just crudely erase my womanhood and be done with it. I’m not sure what they do with the trans men that weren’t lucky enough to escape, but it’s probably best not something dwelled upon.
They tell us they’re “restoring the masculinity that was unjustly taken by an overly permissive society,” making us “true men” again. We’re supposed to be grateful. At first, I wonder why they simply don’t kill us, as has been the preferred course of action for most fascist regimes when confronting the offensive existence of the transfeminine, until I learn they intend to use us as a source of labor, too bereft and broken to fight back.
But they don’t seem to realize that there’s nothing more volatile than someone who has nothing left to lose.
†
The most likely cause of spontaneous human combustion is fairly mundane: the victim accidentally ignites their clothing, via sparks from a fireplace, or a carelessly placed cigarette. Quickly succumbing to the conflagration, the fat from the victim’s body begins to liquefy, and is drawn into the victim’s clothing—the so-called “wick effect”—which sustains the fire for hours, long enough to thoroughly cremate the remains. The fire burns at low temperature, and is limited in its ability to spread laterally, explaining the lack of damage in the surroundings.
This theory would also explain why spontaneous human combustion seemed to strike the elderly, who might be less able to extinguish their burning clothing, and smokers and alcoholics in particular. Oddly, women were disproportionately represented in the case files, to the point that in the Victorian era, it was believed that only women were subject to such a fate.
†
The cells are sterile but cold. We shiver and huddle together for warmth, telling each other our names—our true names, not the ones our captors insist on calling us—to remind ourselves of who we really are.
(Often, they aren’t able to find records of our deadnames, so they call us a masculinized version of our chosen names. This gives me a small bit of amusement; my deadname was nothing at all like my chosen name).
In college I took a course in Buddhism, where there was a brief discussion of the Tibetan meditative practice of tummo. Using biofeedback and breathing techniques, monks engaged in tummo could raise their body temperatures at will to an extraordinary degree. Some even made a game of it, standing outside in the Himalayan winter and throwing wet robes on each other, seeing who could evaporate the most water, steam rising from their bodies. I wish I could have learned this art back then—but novice practitioners are discouraged from learning tummo, out of concern that they could seriously hurt themselves in the process.
†
The wick effect isn’t the only theory that’s been put forward for spontaneous human combustion. The Victorians blamed alcohol, and assumed victims were drunkards so saturated with flammable spirits that it was only a matter of time before they went flambé. Others suggested ball lightning.
Larry Arnold, in his 1995 book Ablaze, suggested multiple theories: that such incidents were the result of a particular confluence of ley lines; that it was caused by a hitherto-unknown quantum particle he dubbed a “pyrotron” that sparked an “internal Hiroshima” within the victims’ bodies; or, invoking kundalini yoga traditions similar to tummo, that extreme emotional stress itself was enough to trigger combustion. I always found this last one the most interesting—perhaps it was why women seemed to be more often affected.
†
They pick me up and pull me out of the cell. Not without a fight—I struggle as hard as I can, and I think I manage to give one of them a bloody nose at least. They beat me, of course, but my skin is so numb from the cold that the pain is almost a nice change of pace.
They drag me to the would-be operating room they’ve set up, my limbs flailing. I consider a break for freedom, only for them to strap me onto a table.
They slip a breathing mask on my face and a subtle metallic perfume of nitrous oxide tickles my nose. I breathe shallow and fast, partially out of fear, and partially out of a stubborn desire not to let them take my consciousness from me too. I want to bear witness to this horror. I’m hot and sweaty, my muscles quivering.
The two putative surgeons hover over me, their hands ready. A fire here could do some good—could burn those surgeons’ hands, wreck their instruments. Maybe it could even cause some real destruction if one of the oxygen tanks goes up, to spare my sisters this horrific mutilation. It would mean my death, but I accepted that fate the moment two thugs jumped me outside my apartment door, and hauled me off to the cells.
My breathing grows faster as the surgeons finish their preparations, and I float in and out of consciousness. A ball of heat burns within me—a ball of hatred, of righteous anger, of sorrow for those who came before me and those that might come after. I fan it as best I can.
Perhaps my name will be remembered for centuries, like John Hitchell, despite the best efforts of these monstrous fools. Or perhaps it, too, will be consumed by the fire.
The sharp bite of the scalpel sinks into my left breast, and I ignite.
© 2024 Tessa Fisher
About the Author
Tessa Fisher is a trans lesbian SFF writer and astrobiologist at the University of Ariona’s Steward Observatory. When she’s not doing science or writing, her hobbies include burlesque dancing, running, and singing in the Phoenix Women’s Chorus. Her work has appeared in Analog, Fireside, and Translunar Travelers Lounge, as well as multiple anthologies. She currently resides in Phoenix with her wife and an aloof bearded dragon. For more info, check out her website at tessafisher.com, or follow her at tessafisher.bsky.social.