i.
incandescence
He could taste it. The sharp, metallic, taste in his mouth; the sweet tang on his tongue. It was blood. Not that he cared, really, because after everything that had unfolded this was nothing. Feeling pain meant nothing; the thick stench of death in the air was nothing to him.
Dark smoke curled around his body, suffocating him like a pair of strong hands. The wind is hot from the fire, his once furnished home a dark cavern of embers and ash. He could do no more. There was no point in looking for survivors; he had heard all of the screams as he fled out of the door. His legs had screeched in pain but he had not cared. Not anymore. Never again.
What had passed was a memory he lived every day, breathed every day. Each morning he awoke and smelt the fire, felt its flames, and by the end of the day he felt as if he were dead. Physically, emotionally, drained.
That fire had destroyed his life. His family had burned; charred broken bodies littering the scorched floorboards. And after the first wave of shock had hit, he had fallen down upon his knees and wept. He cried until the stars emerged from the sky and then he had slept with hot tears running lines down his reddened, cold face.
And now, the taste of blood mixing with saliva brings back memories he would rather forget. He begins to feel it coming before it even arrives. A soft buzz erupts in his mind, growing to a loud crescendo, drowning out all the other sounds around his form. He groans as the sound in his head renders him deaf to the outside world. His vision blurs, the walls of his room seeming to compress towards his still frame, and the voices of his long-dead loved ones return.
Taunting him, haunting him. It's your fault, they tell him, it was you who did this to us. It's your entire fault. We hate you. He lets out a blood-curdling howl, shoving his sweaty palms over his ears trying to block out the words. But it's all in his head. All of it, in his mind.
'Stop it, stop it!' he screams, 'Get out of my head!' He's sobbing now, his head between his knees, fingers clawing at his hair. It's your fault, they say, you've killed us all. We'll never forgive and we'll never forget.
He could taste it. The sharp, metallic, taste in his mouth; the sweet tang on his tongue. It was blood. Not that he cared, really, because after everything that had unfolded this was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.