A/N: I wrote this for literacy, then thought of Pyro, then yeah...

Disclaimer: I don't own TF2 nor do I play it

I See Fire

I was a being of irate emotions. I was the embodiment of pent up frustrations. But I had a reason. It's why I am writing this letter, and left it away from the fire I started.

Let's get one thing clear: I'm not a sycophant. If I was, then I wouldn't have obviated the need for the medicine my therapist said I should have taken. I don't need chemical help in my brain, I needed a natural and destructive solution, one that I could relate to, one that was misunderstood.

The group of literati all started this: they became so obsessed in their fine arts, that they put it upon their students. We felt the pain of the characters, both physical and mental. We all passed that class. And we all changed. Some have numbed the pain permanently. I envied them until I could join them. Others, took the advice, got the help, and now take the medicine. I pitied them for my solution is far more effective.

I always lit fires. For watching it burn then slowly die down was just me watching my emotions. It represented me when I was on a high, feeling rage and a need for vengeance at my professors, who inflicted the pain of fictional characters on us. I have the scars to prove the effect of their pain, and my response to it before I saw fire.

I had bruises up my arms and legs, scars replacing them, and ribs poking out skin. It was amazing I was still alive with all the pain I caused trying to hide the other pain, the guilt, the anger. The hatred I felt for those who caused me pain. The hatred I felt for letting myself fall victim at someone else's hands. Even sorrow for my fellow classmates and the fictional characters, and even those I didn't know who went through what we did. But I was angry at myself, for I couldn't save them. I'd scoff at it now, how now I know there was nothing I can do, but there's no way I can. If you're reading this, the fire inside me went out while the one outside burned me. Charred my broken person, my shell of a college student. My almost shell of a man. Shame you can't join me, I'm sure it's quite relaxing.

Fire wasn't the only thing that burned me. A strong beverage one finds at a bar burned it's way down my throat, allowing me to drown my sorrows in it, until the bartender kicked me out for being underage. At least I didn't get any worse from there, or else I wouldn't have left the world slowly and painfully.

Then, one day, the fire got out of control. Took me ages to put it out.

I treasured the burns on my entire figure until they healed. It was a glorious sight, and the pain was even more so. I deserved punishment for my current actions and my past. My professors were the only witnesses to my crimes, but I made sure they wouldn't speak of them, or the trauma I felt at their hands.

Fire was a mean of catharsis for my pent up rage and guilt, so I did the only thing I could do. The only thing to end my pain.

I walked into the fire. And never came back.