It was them.
They never leave.
The hollow calls pull me into consciousness, in and out of sleep.
My room is dark, and it smells of the white lotuses that grow just outside of my room.
The pure white colors.
Pure.
The one thing I’ll never be.
Not since the fire.
The fire that took my parents from me.
The fire that killed my smile.
The fire that made me who I am.
In a way, I suppose I have nothing against it, but I also do.
It took my childhood, my happiness, my freedom.
It also gave me the markings of the devil, burnt permanently on my side, and on my eye.
The fire that has left me full of hatred.
“I can’t abandon hate. If I did, nothing would be left of me.”
That’s my motto.
That’s what I cling to, my desperate attempt to stay sane.
The picture of my parents in the hall, burn it.
The picture of me smiling, toss it out.
That’s an order.
My hate will always be bound to me, it is now the very reason I’m alive, the essence of my whole being.
I will not abandon it.
I will not, I cannot, I don’t know how, I couldn’t if I tried.