Don't own, not mine, except O.C.
Opening her eyes for a second time, she found herself surrounded by chaos. People were screaming around her, running in every direction, mindless in their panic. She smelled fire and gasoline puncturing the air.
Rolling upwards, she rubbed her face and peered through the crowds. Off in the distance, a flaming mass was tied to the top of a flagpole. It was only when she cleared her eyes that she saw it to be a burning man. Firemen tried to douse the flames from land and air, but whatever he was covered in was only worsened by water. His cries turned into shrill shrieks, winding down into a high-pitched whistle. A moment later, he stopped abruptly and screamed no more. Before she could catch another glance, the crowd surged forward and the burnt corpse was blocked from sight.
She was all alone. Nothing came near her; all were focused on the spectacle nearby. Peace and being alone were all she needed at this moment. Despite her pity for the man on fire, she couldn't help but be a bit grateful for the massive silence that surrounded her, a rare glimpse of what this public space could be.
She dusted off the jacket she was still swathed in, and stood up. Plucking a petal off a nearby tree, she scattered it to the wind and offered a small prayer of sympathy to the man's loved ones. With that she turned around and walked, step by step, towards home. Or whatever home meant anymore.
Interpret what you will.
