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The overwhelming ecstasy of fire was like no other. Seeing the beloved, cold homes of people being engulfed in flames was a job Montag was proud to be a part of. He loved to see the plastic protector burn and melt away, along with the rest of the house's unrealistic fantasies. Seeing the repulsive pages of books swirl up in red and orange colors was a delight every fireman had. The house full of bitter, distant memories turn into black ashes, to be swooped away by the chilly night, to hear the weeping of the people, who knew all too well of the illegality of those pages in their home, for the knowledge in those books gets erased physically as well as mentally.
Tonight felt no different. The firemen crowd around a table, watching Captain Beatty handle the cards. Montag scratched at his stubble, rather bored. The most interesting game of poker was interrupted by the ear ringing alarm of the firehouse. Pounding in their ears, non stop screeching. Montag and the rest flew to arm themselves, running like excited children, sliding down the pole, hopping into the car. As a gloved hand flew to the switch, the sirens began to thunder.
The sirens screeched loud, waving their colorful white and red colors around like a reminder, a trophy on display. Illuminating the night, flashing through the windows of the sleeping residents.
The journey to the forbidden house felt forever. Agitated with excitement, they hopped off the truck as a row of ducks would follow their beloved mother.
Running inside, they encountered a man hunched over his coffee. His face was tired, time was not kind to him. He neither spoke nor protested, accepting the harsh violence as they shoved and pushed him out of the house.
Captain Beatty's voice roared throughout the house, “You know what to do!”
The smell of kerosene filled Montag's lungs, settling into every corner of his body, spilling onto his gloves, spilling past the protective layer, sinking into the deepest crevice of his fingernails.
The books lay scattered all over the place. Under the bed, being ripped out from the oven, falling from the hidden crevices of the house. Montag ran through the hallway, spinning like a tornado with the sweet, bitter smelling kerosene in his hands.
Stopping at the end, he entered the master bedroom. It was rather big, bigger than the room he shared with his wife. Dozens of books lay on the desk, stacked on top of each other, one open on the very center of the wooden desk. He walked calmly to it, jug swishing in his hand. The yells of the other firemen echoed behind him, it suddenly fell silent.
He stared at the book in front of him. He stared at the opening line.
"The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden….”
Montag suddenly wanted to know what was in that studio, who was in that studio, what was happening in that studio--
He snatched it, stuffing it into his thick jacket. Montag suddenly felt like a kid, who was snatching a cookie from the jar when his mother specifically told him not to.
The thundering footsteps behind him made him instinctively throw his hands up, splashing on the hardcovers.
“Montag! Let's go! Beatty has the match ready!”
Montag twisted around, running out of the room.
---
The night felt different. It felt colder than usual. His wife, Mildred, slept soundly with the earshell in her ear. Montag turns on his side to look at her. The moonlight illuminated her soft features, her chest rising with such peace, it made him aware of his trembling hands clutched to his chest.
He felt the hardcover book underneath his pillow. Montag felt if he dared to lift his head, it would detonate.
With trembling hands, he slowly slid his hands underneath his pillow, grasping the book with fearful hands. He took it out, looking at it. Underneath the moonlight he could now properly read the title.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray”
He looked over at Mildred, she was still.
Clutching the book to his chest, he slowly rose. Moving one foot in front of the other, walking over to the incinerator. Montag stared at the soft burst of glow the incinerator made, waiting to be fed. Opening the latch, he extended the book in his hand towards it, hovering…
He rose suddenly, closing the latch. Instead, walking over to the air conditioner. Slowly taking it apart, he softly set the book in the darkest corner of the vent.
Walking back to the bed, he laid down, and closed his eyes.
The night following was no different than the nights before. Whirling, twisting, shouting, excitement, screeching as the red and orange swirls danced before them. As the collection of books grew in Montag's house, he threw flames up in the sky like no other.
The books in the air vent grew slowly, sitting under Montag's pillow until the night fell completely silent.
Montag refused to let his facade falter. He never fully read the books, reading here and there when they fell in front of his face.
He felt afraid that if he were to make it past that first paragraph, he could never return to pretend with blissful ignorance.