She watched the house burn. Walls to ashes. She sat inside it and took in a fire a she never started. This is not suicide. This is murder. She didn’t leave because she was chained to perception and respect. She didn’t leave because she was weighed down by guilt. The world stood at the window and blamed the dying girl for what you did. Their words were gasoline and this was a thirsty fire. These walls didn’t cave in, they crashed down with all their might. She lay in the rabble knowing that nobody was coming to save her. She lay in the shutters knowing her sadness would enslave her. Fire die but spirits don’t. During the loneliest of times, a hero came to her aid. A hand struggled through the mess to pull her out. It had a tight grip but a gentle touch. Slowly, it rescued her from her demise. She opened her eyes to see her hero. She opened her eyes as smoke and dust settled and saw her reflection.