Ashes.

In the flickering light of the fire, I see only one thing.

Ashes.

A dull ringing buzzes in my ears, pounding through my head like a war drum.

I close my eyes. With each beat of the drum in my head comes an accusation that somehow, somehow, it was all my fault.

All my fault. I was the one who lived, while everyone else died. Surely I could have done something. As if I could take a bullet for them. At least a bullet is quick. At least a bullet ends the screams fast, as opposed to a flame, dragging them on and on and on and on and on, and I hear a voice in my head, interpreting the screams. The blame is mine. The fault is mine. They are all dead because of me. If I had died, maybe another could have lived. My father, my mother, my brother...

Ashes. Ashes burn my skin, invade my lungs, stain my tears gray as the faces of the dead.

And suddenly the clouds grow dark and water rains from the sky as if the heavens are crying with me.

The ashes soak into the ground. The ashes of my village. The ashes of my family. The ashes of the life that I had once had, that I could have still had if that single spark hadn't lit the flame.

If I had died, at least I would have been with them. At least I could have been at peace, been sure that the tragedy wasn't my fault, but I lived while the others had died, I lived, I was unhurt while the others suffered, while the others burned, I lived with my body intact while the others had to watch theirs melt in front of their very eyes...

That is not mercy. It is not mercy that I lived, it is not mercy that I have another chance at life, it is not mercy that I am okay, because I'm not. The flames may have melted their bodies but it melted my heart, my soul, my sanity, and it was all my fault and it was all my fault and it was all my fault....

And that is my burden to bear.