I stood in the small shelter outside of the preschool. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here. There are children playing all around me, but I’m alone.
I arrived at my house. It’s large and made of stone. I could hear children crying as they are scolded. I walked up the stone steps and opened the large doors. I go up to my room. My brother is there, holding two crying babies. He’s trying to calm them. My sister is there too, sitting on the floor. I sensed death in her. Not her body, but her soul. As if a piece of her was gone, taken away. I ran from the room, and down the halls. It smelled of blood, death. Then I smelled something else. Fire. I saw it, a brilliant light, twisting up the walls, creeping across the floor towards me. I ran, just as I did when my house burned. As I did when my parents died. Cries of agony filled the air. I fell to the ground; let the fire burn my skin, my flesh, my bones. I can feel the fire burning through me. I’m not aware of anything. Not the screams. Not the orphanage. Not even the fire eating away at my flesh. I wasn’t aware of the hands that grasped me, pulled me from the flames.