Combust Part II: Ring of Fire

I jumped the ring of fire on Tuesday. It was a Tuesday because we had ham sandwiches for lunch, like we always do on Tuesday. The whipped and trod-upon lettuce mournfully added between the meat and the bread, no dressing, in an attempt to cheer the meal up. It never quite works, though.
But still, I know I’m not lying, not crazy, not mad even though none of you have ever listened to me. Not even during the dead of the black night, when the flames curl round my heart and squeeze, the room ablaze in red, orange, yellow, and gold as the fire is fanned and fed by the fuel of nightmares. I die and I scream of a death by fire, over and over, and yet you cannot hear. You’re deaf, you’re deaf. You’re always deaf to my screams.
So I jumped, scrambled, scaled the scalding chains that you’d attached to me while I wasn’t looking, blinded by the fire in the corner of my eyes. I now no longer wear the gasoline that coated each inch of my skin.
Because the flames were coming, coming strong, without warning, without cause, as they creep, crawl, singe my body to black ashes. I’m turning into black ashes, gray sand, white smoke and charred bones. 
I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, and you don’t listen, don’t listen to my pleas for help.
So I jumped and somehow managed to make it out of the blaze.