The sun would never shine again. At least not for Olive. She felt as if there would be a terribe black storm cloud hanging over her everyday for the rest of her life. If everybody knew who had started the fire, if they knew who had been responsible for the death of her mother...

For the duration of the funeral, Olive was completely zoned out from everything that was being said. Luckily for her, she hadn't been picked to make any type of speech, or write a poem. Many of the people underestimated this small quiet seven year old, who really was very nearly eight. That, and she was probably most likely to burst into tears- for the guilt inside her that grew worse every day, and in the memory of her poor, beautiful mother.

"I'm sorry for your loss Olive." William, a boy who had turned nine recently was just one of the many, many people who had said this to Olive and her father. To be honest, it was now starting to get very tedious. Olive's mother had been quite popular with some of the men, but a few of the women had been jealous of her beautiful looks; in Olive's opinion they probably never really cared whether she lived or died.

"Do you want me to take you and Olive home?" Olive's grandfather asked quietly, his voice barely audible, probably from all of the grief that he had from the death of his daughter. The thought of this made Olive feel so sick she thought that she might throw her entire insides up.

"No," Her father replied curtly. How would she tell him? He had loved his wife so dearly, even though they occasionally argued about the terrible, run down condition of their house (or shack, as they both so often called it), he could never bring himself to disagree with her.

"Come on Olive. Lets go home, and get away from this funeral. It's murder! Your grandfather should never have invited so many people along." Olive really wasn't in the mood to argue with her father when he was like this. Her father reached out for her hand, but Olive tried her best to dodge it. She had made extra special care not to touch anything or anyone with her hands, as she was worried that she would start a fire again and perhaps hurt even more people.

"Why're you being so awkward, Olive? Normally you like to hold my hand."

" Yes, I do, but Mummy died, and I'm too sad to do anything."

"Then why don't I tuck you up into bed as soon as we get home?" He asked, in the most cheery voice that he was able to manage. "Even if it is a half burnt shack," He added under his breath.

Olive shook her fiery hair wildly. " No. I just want to go outside. Alone, please."

Her father frowned, then considered for a second. " That's fine, as long as you don't run away or do something stupid. I know that you're sad, but so am I, and so is your grandfather and everybody else in the village. But death is something that will happen to everyone, it's a natural part of life. Only, your mother didn't need to go so quick."

He halted in the middle of the path, knelt down and cupped her head in his hands, which, to Olive, seemed ten times bigger than hers would ever be. "I can explain this much better when you're older, and you can understand more." He stood up again and continued walking.

The rest of the journey continued in silence. It seemed that everyone they passed was annoying Olive's father, as his 'joyful' walk soon became an angry stomp. Olive was afraid that the next person who gave a polite 'hello' was going to make her father explode with anger. This would make the guilt feel worse, and Olive felt as if she wasn't going to live through the rest of the day without telling somebody the real truth.

As soon as they arrived, Olive dashed out into the puny garden that the family owned. The only beauties outside were the water fountain, which was a gift from a distant relative. She had always felt that the eyes of the strange bird on the fountain were watching her, and she had always felt insecure around it. The only other lovely feature of the garden was a pretty batch of red roses, the namesake of her mother. Her mother maintained them daily, but recently the deep red colour had gone a slightly orange colour, reminding Olive of the burning fire only a short while ago.

Olive wondered if the fire was actually created from her hands, or if she had hallucinated this. Should she even be guilty? Maybe the shock and fear of the fire had made her imagine that she was creating fire with her bare hands. But she had to be sure that this was real.

Swiftly, Olive picked up a fallen tree branch from the ground. Instantly if was set alight. Even though the flames were touching her fingers, there was no burning sensation whatsoever- she couldn't feel a thing! After a while, she was rather transfixed with the lovely flames she was creating, but one look at the roses and she yelped and dropped the stick into the bottom of the fountain. The flames were hissing, almost as they were urging Olive to stay, to be relight. The old guilt was there again. And she knew that it was herself who had started the fire.

For the past few nights, in case of another fire, Olive slept on the floor in her bedroom with her hands in metal bowls filled with ice cold water. She could barely sleep the night because of how painful it was. And the fear of her setting everything she touched on fire was increasing. What was she going to do? What if her father saw her sleeping like this?

One thing was clear now. She had to tell him.

The afternoon that followed the miserable, dreary morning was bright and sunny. The exact opposite of Olive's mood. Nerves writhed in her like snakes. She had spent a while after realising that everything she touched would be set on fire (or possibly melt?) looking for something that would temporarily stop this from happening.

The plan entirely backfired. She found nothing and instead managed to alert her father instead. His footsteps thundered into the kitchen, only to find Olive on a footstool, with her hands balled into fists. He seemed puzzled, but this was soon answered by the frightened look on Olive's face.

"Olive! You look as if you've seen a ghost... And why are you stood up on that stool?"

"Daddy, there's something I need to tell you," Olive answered timidly, stepping down from the stool.

"What is it? You haven't broken anything, have you, Olive? Have you? Have you?!" He stepped right up to her and leaned into his face. She shrank back with absolute terror.

"No! No! I haven't done anything!" He relaxed and put a hand on her shoulder with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Please, I need to tell you something outside."

"Come on then Olive, but we should be quick- It's getting dark outside," And with that Olive felt herself being steered outside into the cold sunset. There was a mist unravelling itself outside, which made everything seem very eerie to Olive. There might be monsters outside! Evil things that ate you alive and destroyed everything in their path. But was Olive now one of these monsters? Had she become something so evil that she had killed her own mother in a cold heart? No. She simply couldn't think that.

They sat down in the garden. The two old people who lived about ten minutes away (as was everybody else) had donated a new set of tables and chairs, after the Elephanta family's had burnt to nothing but a pile of ash.

"So. What is it that you need to tell me, Olive?"

"Well, daddy, I-" She broke away, barely able to breath. Would she ever be able to tell him?

"Go on darling. You can tell me anything." His tone was so gentle that Olive wanted to burst with tears.

"I, well...I...I-"

"Come on sweetheart. You can do it." He tried to place his hand on hers, which was faced palm up. Olive rushed her hand away abruptly.

"I started the fire."

Her father went very pale, as did Olive, contrasting with their furiously fire coloured hair.

"No, you didn't," he said with a nervous laugh. "It was an accident. You just discovered the fire, it must have confused you greatly."

"No, daddy. I did do it," she insisted, her voice wobbling. A tear cascaded down her cheek. "I killed mummy." She was trying her absolute best not to cry, but she knew that soon her emotions would take control of her.

"And, may I ask, exactly how you start the fire? Surely you didn't use matches, or stones?" His voice was wavering too.

"I can show you."

"How?"

"Could you get a tree branch for me?" She questioned, and quite promptly, her father stood up, and walked stiffly over to a willow tree. He eased off a small branch and carried it over.

Olive took the branch from her father like a shot of lightning, and as soon as she did, it was on fire. Her father had the exact same reaction that she had, but after a minute, his fascinated expression hardened, and quickly the colour came back to his face. He shot up, making Olive jump and drop the glowing stick onto the concrete floor.

Her father stepped on the stick with his heavy hobnailed boot, smouldering the flames. He grabbed hold of Olive's wrist in an iron grip, drawing tears of pain from Olive.

"You were the cause of all of my misery!" He shrieked, and dragged her back into the house. "You're a demon, a curse upon the world!" He threw her onto her bed.

"Don't touch anything. I'll be back with something to stop you from killing me as well," he hissed. Olive could hear the lock turn in the door. She was trapped in her room. Forever.

She curled up into a ball on the floor, taking caution as not to touch anything with her hands. For the rest of the night she wept and wept. The guilt and emotion that had been locked up for the last few days was pouring out. Would she ever be free of this pain?